


a passing glimpse

by sighless



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anders has alters, Blood Magic, Borderline Personality Disorder, Chuck E. Cheese's, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Drugs, Fake Identities, Flashbacks, Freeform, Gen, Inquisition, M/M, Marijuana, Modern Thedas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Running Away, Slow Burn, Tal-Vashoth Iron Bull, Timeline What Timeline, geography is weird, multiple systems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5814289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighless/pseuds/sighless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is running away from Tevinter, except he's shit at actually taking care of himself when all he wants to do is get away. This leads him to pass out on the Imperial Highway, only to be discovered by a small motorcycle band who take him to a doctor's office with a cat-shaped clock on the wall. Dorian wakes up and keeps running even though he realizes that no distance will ever feel far enough, but at least now he's got people (friends?) that make it bearable. </p><p>(Modern AU with obligatory hipster dorian, biker chargers, and map not referenced to scale / geographic liberties taken)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. high-fiving the imperial highway with your face

**Author's Note:**

> i really like modern AUs okay........ also the map isn't 100% accurate to canon but dont worry

Every oncoming and passing light made him flinch, but the mage stopped ducking beneath the trees a few miles back. The tendons in his legs were screaming with each footfall against the dirty concrete; his very finely stitched leather dress shoes were made for trips down the aisle to a woman he’d only ever spoken to in passing, to give some political appearance, or for wandering ballrooms as if each step were not strategic and meticulously planned. Now they were ragged, the soles beginning to break, laces frayed. A few cars slowed down beside him, but he walked faster those moments, until they sped back up.  Although the highway sign hours back had welcomed him to Sunny  Free Marches, he couldn’t take any chances, not when there was no doubt some alert out claiming he’d been dragged into one of the massive corporate trucks passing by. No doubt one driven by some Nevarran Tal-Vashoth making deliveries, if it meant the blame could be redirected and some poor fool framed.  


No, it wasn’t fair or safe to either Dorian or any driver to allow himself to be picked up as a hitchhiker.  


He stayed on the highway as it came up to a bridge. In the distance, mountains bled into the sky, forests a blur of blue and green. His heart pounded in his ears. Every stride took him further and further away. The idea of it numbed him, eyes dead and wide, mind static.  


The sun slipped up the icy sky, stinging the mage while warming his clammy skin. He shuddered. Every few hours he spent some magic to heal himself, but the sweat was getting cold on his forehead, weighing down his hair and making him itch all over. He had run out of what little food he’d brought with him, and it felt like it had been days now. His stomach twisted, but he couldn’t stop now.

 

Somewhere near the afternoon, the sky went black too quickly. Wobbling slightly, he pulled himself a few more steps before slipping down, his last sight a glimpse of the Waking Sea.

 

 ************  


Just as quickly as the black had overcome him, a fluorescent white enveloped him and threw him against a large wax sheet on a cold table. His ribs sank against his lungs, and it took him a few moments to realize that his body was screaming through his mouth this time, however hoarsely.  


Dorian sent electricity to his fingertips, but cut it off when that only hurt more. These white lights broke into his eye sockets, pulled his brain apart, and panic surged through every gap. He turned his gaze hard enough to snap his neck (though it was aching enough he wasn’t totally convinced it wasn’t already shattered).

 

Aside from an array of cotton swabs and tongue depressors on the counter, and a pamphlet with a man smiling for Overcoming Lyrium Addiction, he was alone.

 

The room was hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. A single shuttered window let in enough light to balance out the unnatural brightness of the overheard bulbs. The clock on the wall was a white circle with little triangles poking out of it and a short tail at the bottom -- a cat? -- if it was right, then it was around noon now.

 

Tears poured down when he pulled himself up and dropped to his feet, but he kept moving until he reached the door.

 

The handle turned before his hand reached it, and Dorian found himself staring into the brown eyes of a man in a coat that radiated with the white of the room, the name “ _Anders_ ” embroidered in green across the breast.

 

“Oh, Maker, no, _please_ sit back down--”

 

“ _I’m not going back_ ,” he sputtered, flinching when something pushed down his shoulder back down to Thedas.

  
The man sighed, fighting through exhaustion  to keep his face from aging another decade each second. “You’ve got to go back, your feet were bleeding when they picked you up, and your ankle has a nasty sprain about now.”  


“No!” Dorian pushed him again, but he was too weak to actually make a dent. His voice cracked again in protest, “No, you can’t send me back to those monsters.”  


“I meant back to the table, but -- come now, they’re not that bad. Some of them are a bit … off … but they’re good people at heart. They _brought_ you here, after all.” 

 

“Fuck off, they drove me here!” The absolute nerve, it sent a hot rage through the mage’s body, sparks hitting his fingers like a cheap lighter low on fluid. The static in his body turned to daggers.

 

“Well, yes, of course they did,” the blond man blinked, eyebrow arched. “I know a motorcycle sidecar isn’t the ideal medical transport, but it’s better than letting you just die there. Look, just sit down, so I can check your vitals. Please?”

 

In some haze, Dorian felt himself be lowered onto a wheeled stool, with an ugly, dull blue sleeve wrapped around his upper arm while the light-skinned, stocky doctor watched a dial, pumping it tighter and checking for his blood pressure. Anders ran through his usual list -- blood pressure, heart rate, reflexes, eye response -- his patient was shaken, terrified, and much below his peak, though still functioning as if through sheer spite.

 

Anders broke the sterile, white silence. “So, how exactly does a Nevarran apostate make it to the Waking Sea alone, on foot, with an empty stomach? I mean, it’s the most interesting story I’ve had all week, between the panicky dwarves new to surface life and maybe two ex-Templars looking for a fix. I fancy a walk now and then, but I barely make it half a block, much less halfway down the Imperial Highway. I’m not sure if you look too young or too old to go on some soul-searching hike like that. What’s your name, anyhow?”

 

Dorian blinked, trying to piece through the rambling. The man was only talking to fill the space, but… “Nevarran?”  


“Wow, your parents must be _big_ patriots.”

 

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , no -- I’m… my name is Dorian, I’m not from-- I’m not Nevarran.”

 

At the curse, Anders’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re Tevinter? Ha! Bull’s going to get a kick out of this. Oh, I mean, that is -- if you are comfortable disclosing that information. Your privacy is my top priority next to your health.”

 

The dark-skinned man’s nerves fell back into place. He was stunned. Everything felt surreal as his enraged panic subsided. A laugh bubbled in his throat, not quite falling out.  


“I’m going to use some healing magic on your legs, and then I want you to step over to this scale so I can weigh you. Is that alright, Dorian?”  


He was grinning, winking though he knew he was an absolute mess right now. “Oh, no need to ask twice about putting those lovely hands on me, doctor.”  


The healer cleared his throat, rolling his eyes with a soft smile. His touch was feather-light, and the spell poured out like an incorporeal muscle cream, sliding up the rest of his body, leaving behind the taste of pulpy orange juice on Dorian’s tongue. The knots in his body began to untwist themselves with gentle tugs. A dull ache washed over him. The Tevinter let himself be led to the scale, an ancient, cracked thing Anders shifted like an abacus at the top while scribbling down the information with a nod.  


“Okay! You _seem_ to be doing a lot better, but you still really need to get some actual rest and food in you.” Anders put his clipboard down onto one of the counters, crossing his arms and leaning back against it. “I can bring you something here, but if you’re open to this, the people who brought you in offered a key card to the motel they’re shacked up in right now, it’s just downtown.” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “You don’t seem too interested in rejoining them, though, so if you don’t want to do that, then by all means stay here. I can bring lunch back.”  


Dorian lifted himself back onto the cushioned exam counter. The wax paper crunched loudly beneath him.

 

He hesitated, weighing options. He didn’t want to stop running. Freedom was still not quite in his grasp, and every second not moving made his stomach churn -- but part of that could also be the fact every meal he’d had in the past week or so had been eaten hurriedly behind some trees alongside the highway and side roads. He itched; it felt like little bugs were crawling all over his skin, and his hair felt heavy with oil and dirt, mustache drooping over his lips.

 

If nothing else, a shower would be nice. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to relax for a bit.” He scratched his chin, considering how much of the story he needed to disclose. It hadn’t been anyone hired by his father who had picked him up to be stitched up, but Anders couldn’t know of his terrors. “These, ah... _fellows_ of yours. Where are they staying?”  


“I’ll drive you, if you’d like. It’s just up the street, it’s, well,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re staying above The Stuttering Chanter’s.”  


“The what.”  


“I told them the Hyatt had perfectly nice rooms, but apparently Rocky’s not allowed back after last time. Bull’s got a few rooms at that inn. There’s showers, don’t worry, it’s not a _complete_ dump.”  


Dorian hummed, looking around for his bag. “In that case, I will take you up on that lunch offer later. Bar food does not sound appetizing right now.” He smirked, pulling his messenger bag into his lap and checking the disposable phone he’d grabbed at store near the border.

 

Thankfully, no notifications. Yet.  



	2. ugly bikes and uglier carpets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders drives Dorian out to the inn to meet the gang, sort of.

 

It was past noon, and Anders had led Dorian out of the small examining room -- which was, apparently, one of only three rooms -- and into the empty waiting room. The doctor took off his coat, folding it over his arm.

  
  


An elven girl with a tree arching up her forehead looked up, smiling brightly and putting her magazine down. She stood up to slid the window open at her receptionist’s desk, leaning over her arms. “Dr. Anders! And Serah-- Gavrus, it was?”

  
  


Dorian stared in bemusement before he remembered the blighted fake ID. He’d given himself some old Sopporati name, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was. Looking over at his patient apologetically, the healer said, “Well, they’ve asked to be called Dorian, but yes, Dorian’s looking much better. I was just about to take him to his rooms.”

  
  


“Dorian,” she nodded. “Apologies -- I’m Ashara. I’m so relieved you’re looking better. 

  
  


“Oh, please,” Dorian drawled, smiling softly at the woman. “Once I’m at my best, I’ll knock everyone else’s betters out of the park.”

  
  


Anders handed his coat to Ashara, then held the door open for Dorian. The doctor called out that he would return within the hour. Outside, the warm Nevarran air brought in a salty-tinged breeze from the Waking Sea. A bus passed by the opposite road. Lining the road were small, cramped-together shops with boarded windows and foreclosure signs pinned to the doors. 

  
  


“I’m parked just right here.” He walked around to the road, glancing both ways several times before unlocking a scratched station wagon. A massive dent pierced the passenger door.

  
  


Dorian sighed. Memories of the long black cars and velvet seats of his childhood fluttered past his eyelids. The lock clicked open. The Tevinter man climbed in, knees knocking together. The seat was covered in small hairs, but he decided not to question it too much.

  
  


“Sorry, I know it’s a mess,” Anders said sheepishly, though this seemed to only extend to a few receipts crumpled in the floorboard and an empty bottle of water on the dashboard. “Oh, I try to avoid pronouns for new patients -- what would you prefer I call you?”

  
  


“I don’t think I’ve been asked that before, but… he and him are fine.”

  
  


“Great, okay,” the doctor nodded. He started the car and pulled onto the empty street. “I’m Anders, but you could probably tell. I use he, mostly. Sometimes they. Not a lot.” 

 

Stores passed them by, boards disappearing like a gradient as the street progressed, with more signs declaring OPEN rather than FORECLOSED.  Cars lined the sides of the streets, people getting into them with arms full of shopping bags. Young women in colorful hats and big sunglasses chatted animatedly to each other. Following behind were small children. Teenagers rolled down the sidewalks on skateboards, hair blowing behind them.

 

Anders pulled into a small parking lot beside a bar that looked as if it would cave in on itself at any moment. The orange bricks stacked up three stories high. It was covered in dirt and graffiti. Wide, psychedelic tags that took too much effort to read and bleeded over each other, bordered by less intense signatures and crude drawings in sharpie. The sign at the front was a lacey cursive -- The Stuttering Chanter. Near the front, a line of pitch black motorcycles gleamed in the afternoon sun. The chrome twisted and reflected everything; they were difficult to look at for too long. 

The largest sat in the center. “Behemoth” was too gentle, soft, and small of a word to describe this monster. Dorian would have to use his hands just to lift himself into the seat, and even if the handlebars weren’t overly splayed out, he wasn’t sure he could reach them. At the mouth of it sat a large skull, pointed out  with silver fangs sticking from its maw, bared. It seemed to be a model -- hopefully -- of a dragonling skull. 

 

To top it all off, the entire damn thing was a glittery pink.

 

Anders grabbed a scrap of paper off the dashboard, scribbling out a number and handing it to Dorian. “Text me if you need. I’ll be back later to check up on everyone, after I get off work. It’s my turn to treat for dinner anyway. Here’s the key card. They’re on the third floor. I’m sorry, I’d stay, but I really need to get back for some appointments--”

 

“It’s fine,” Dorian shrugged, taking the plastic yellow card and tucking it into the pocket of his emerald green blazer. He slid out of the car with a wink. “I’ll see you later, then.”

 

The doctor laughed, waving before pulling out of the parking lot and leaving the Tevinter runaway to his own devices.

 

Sighing, he turned to enter the building. A few heads turned, but nobody focused on him for very long. The bartender looked sternly at an older man in deep conversation with him. Across the oak floors, a large group took shots around a table, howling with laughter and trading stories with each other. An absolutely massive Qunari man was playing darts with a long-haired dwarf, and both were ogling a serving girl carrying a tray of drinks. From a source too difficult to pinpoint, the radio echoed with music from Top 40 lists -- from at least a year or two ago.

  
  


Dorian kept his head down and snuck off to the back corner, where a scratched elevator was tucked away. Small dents freckled the surface, and he didn’t even want to know what the cause was.

  
  


The third floor opened up to a dark hallway. The carpet looked like it would have been more at home in a bowling alley, which definitely took some of the horror movie element out of the ordeal. The key card pointed him to the very end of the hall, empty except for -- past one door -- the unmistakable sound of a headboard smacking the wall. He groaned with disgust. The corridor ended with a small window looking out on a small part of the block below, and the door beside it took his key.

  
  


The hideous carpeting only slid further, with the added bonus of stains that could have been vomit or blood -- the heavy smell of tobacco and pine didn’t clear it up very well. Both beds were in disarray, covered in underwear and leather jackets with the words “BULL’S CHARGERS” stitched in the back, beneath a set of handlebar horns. Against the wall sat an array of weaponry, ranging from two massive mauls shaped like dragon’s heads, a cluster of swords, staves, and longbows.

 

He elected to abandon the slightly terrifying sight by ducking into the small bathroom. Peeling the rank, sweat-soaked outfit from his body, Dorian stepped into the shower. He turned the water to its highest temperature, then heated it further with a spell pushed from his palms. The soaps were cheap, but they covered his aching muscles and pulled the grease from his skin and hair. He sighed in his baptism of steam. Deep in his throat, he hummed.

 

Eventually, the water ran cold, and he was too exhausted to force another fire spell. Instead, he stepped out, drying his hair and twisting his mustache back into its usual curl. The Tevinter picked up his dirty clothes. They desperately needed to be washed, and would be absolutely disgusting to put back on. 

 

Wrapping a towel around his waist and draping another around his shoulders, Dorian left the bathroom with his clothes on the counter.

 

In the true fashion of all awkward romantic comedies, the mage stepped out just as the door to the room swung open. A skyscraping qunari man ducked and folded himself through the door, dragged his eyes up and down the mage’s body, and whistled.

 

“ _Damn!_ You clean up good, ‘vint.”

  
Yelping, Dorian hurled electricity at the creature’s face.


	3. hello, my name is _________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, mostly dialogue, but this has been sitting in my drafts for months and I wanted to make sure everyone knew I didn't forget about this story!!!

Dorian perched on the edge of the bed, every muscle clenched and shaking. Even seated on the floor, the qunari man cast a dark shadow across the room, covering half his smile with a hubcap-sized hand. A red-haired dwarf leaned against the bed, head thrown back in laughter and looking over his shoulder to talk to Dorian. The mage was only half listening to the cacophony of the dwarf’s chattering on, the qunari’s insistence he was fine to the human testing his neck and pulling creams from a first aid kit. 

 

“Hits good, too,” the qunari rumbled, almost purring through half lidded eyes. The dark-skinned, short-haired human let out a snort of disgust.

 

“What did you even say to him?” the human muttered.

 

The door was beginning to fall shut when another human shoved the door open, lighter-skinned and dressed in too many layers for the heat of the hotel room. He was barking out something that made Dorian turn his head in recognition of the accent. It poured from the streets below the memories of his bedroom window.

 

“The dwarf texted me,” the newcomer said. “I told you fast flirting gets you hit in the face-- and none of you have even given him any clothes!”

 

Dorian pushed his knees closer together when the dwarf spun around to take a wide-eyed look, then threw back his head to roar with laughter. The mage’s cheeks burned red, and he flung his gaze against the opposite wall.

 

In a few seconds, a lump of fabric was being shoved into his lap, and that familiar accent came back, demanding he get to the bathroom to get dressed. Mind detached, he flew through several sets of eyes tracking him past the second bed before he slammed the door behind him.

 

The white lights poured over his skin, and he panted. All the energy fell from his bones. Flame rose to his face hotter and hotter. Dorian dropped the towel to the damp tile, tossing the clothes on the counter. A pair of old jeans torn at the ankles sat below a bundled up flannel shirt, faded purple with white-green bleach stains. Sighing, he dressed himself; the shirt fit a little snuggly, and the jeans fell a bit lower on his hips than he would have liked, but it was a much better alternative than letting everyone see his well-tailored birthday suit.

 

When he stepped back into the cramped motel room, the everyone was slightly more balanced. The qunari sat on the edge of one of the beds; the dark skinned man, black hair like mowed grass, was putting away the salves. Aloe and rubbing alcohol stung the air. The lighter skinned man had an undercut and a mess of tangled necklaces swinging against his tank top. Another few people were coming through the door, yelling back and forth to the qunari.

 

“Oh, wait, hey!” the dwarf called out, fanning his arms down as if gradually reducing the volume of the room. “Sparkler’s decent now. Let’s give him a proper, platonic welcome.”

 

“Heh, sorry about that,” the qunari laughed. A thick black eye patch covered his left side, but the remaining pale green eye held a gaze dragging slowly up Dorian’s body. “I’m The Iron Bull. These are the Chargers -- except for the little guy. Let’s see, here’s Dalish,  and that’s Stitches, our healer -- and of course, Krem de la Kreme! Ha!” his bare stomach shook with laughter.

 

“Just Krem, please,” the man with the undercut flashed a smile. The accent came out more, a snake curving around the vowels.

 

“Dorian.”

 

Krem threw his head back. “Ha! Knew that ID was fake, he’s too pretty to be a Gavrus.”

 

The dwarf leaned back against the bed, all suave and giddy. He almost looked as if he had his back against a bar instead of a mattress full of stale smoke and sweat. “Ooh, the plot thickens.”

 

“Hey, ben-Hassarath are trained to smell a fake ID even before we find the wallet.”

 

Dorian flinched. His palms surged with lightning again; he pushed back into his wrists. “You’re-- you’re ben-Hassarath--?” His head spun again.

 

“Most people find out after a while, I’d rather them hear it from me instead of somewhere else. You can just call me The Iron Bull, though.”

 

“Why did you… um, why did you pick me up?”

 

“Oh, no,” he laughed, waving a massive hand dismissively. “This isn’t some Qunari-Vint hostage situation… unless you’re into that.” 

 

Crossing his arms, Dorian scoffed and rolled his eyes. He cocked his hip. With his head to the side, he drawled, “As if brutes like you need a political reason to be uncivilized.” He glanced over to the dwarf, who was typing something as he mouthed what looked suspiciously like what Dorian had just said. “Taking notes? Be sure to include how dashing I manage to look, even in rags.” The back of his hand touched his forehead, and he closed his eyes somberly.

 

Krem snorted, and the dwarf looked up with a face that looked as if he were about to overcharge for a used car. “A tale of bickering lovers, political alliances, and hate sex, by Varric Tethras. You’ll be a star!”

 

Bull looked over seriously. “Make sure you describe my musculature right. This isn’t just endurance work, there was a lot of strength training to get here. You wanna use words like ‘rippling’ or ‘ripped.’ ‘Ripped is good.’”

 

Varric scratched at the bush of chest hair falling out of his shirt, which seemed to only be closed at the very last button. “Hm,  _ ‘The Iron Bull’s belly was prone to rippling after every meal. He rarely wore shirts as they ripped under the strain.’ _ ”

 

Dalish was howling, doubled over -- even the silent, blond human who had snuck in moments ago took a break from brooding to give the slightest smirk. Iron Bull pouted, raising his eyebrows.

 

“That hurts, Varric. That’s hurtful.”

 

“Dwarf’s got a point though, yeah?” Krem said, giving the man a punch to the shoulder. “Though how’s he going to describe those pillowy man-bosoms?”

 

“They’re pecs.”

 

“Sure, sure.”

 

Varric hummed. “ _ The Iron Bull’s harness could barely contain his pillowy man-bosoms- _ -” 

 

Bull let out a theatrical gasp. He began to speak when a few knocks hit the door. Then a muffled hello. Grim stood up, slightly bent, to open it.

 

Anders held his arms crossed in the threshold looking directly into the taller man’s eyes, then around him to the scattered group. “Oi, where’s the rest of you lot?”


	4. investigative journalists and hugs from anthromorphic rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes out to dinner and keep all the secrets they can.

The laundry room was tucked away in the corner of the labyrinth these people called a motel. For a cheap, obviously last minute destination, it was impossibly difficult to figure out the layout of the hallways. Dorian swore he passed by the same vending machine at least three times. A too-bright room the size of Dorian’s closet at home held a row of coral-colored washers and a single dryer. A dead plant hung from the ceiling -- which was impressive, considering it was plastic, as far as the mage could tell.

  
  


He had stolen the chalky bar of complementary soap from the bathroom and tossed it in with his clothes, not wanting to risk being seen by going out into the city, nor wanting to risk his pride by asking his captors to provide him anything.

  
  


Okay,  _ captors _ was a little cruel. Dorian peeked in at his clothes again, swirling in the bubbly water. He thought of drowning Bull, then himself. There was no way this wasn’t some convoluted scheme his father had hatched -- working with beasts was a new low, especially some type of gang, but apparently the man would stop at nothing.

  
  


As he moved his clothes to the dryer, Dorian considered the logistics of faking his own death. 

He  _ was _ too pretty for the name Gavrus, but something else could work. It would work. There was no sense chasing after a dead altus, and he could be buried as the young and handsome royal, taken too soon, rather than the scorned, gay black sheep of the family, inviting shame upon the entire household.

  
  


“Hate my clothes that much, d’you?” 

  
  


The mage flinched, readying a spell as he swung around.

  
  


“Put that away, this city is crawling with templars. We’re not in Tevinter any more, Toto.”

  
  


Before the darker-skinned man could protest, Krem slipped in a few quarters for the dryer, then hit the “on” button. The machine rocked slightly as it tossed the clothes around.

  
  


The man leaned against one of the washing machines, squinting in the light. “Blondie -- Anders, the doctor fellow you rode in with -- wants us all to go out to dinner or something.”

  
  


“And be seen like  _ this _ ? Surely you’re joking.”

  
  


“Oh, I am so sorry, Your Highness,” he said straightening up and allowing the Tevinter accent to thicken. “I understand you are used to lounging about in only the finest of silk sweatpants and imported, freshly-ironed tank tops. Should I fetch your slippers?”

  
  


“Something without a stain would be nice,” Dorian deadpanned back.

  
  


Krem made a humming noise in the back of his throat. He rolled his eyes. “Why’d you leave, then?”

  
  


“Excuse me?”

  
  


“I mean, I have my reasons, I’m sure yours are just as interesting -- considering they led you to hitchhike with one pair of clean clothes. You flip your underwear inside out, or what? Because that’s disgusting.”

  
  


“I have done nothing of the sort!”

  
  


“That is somehow more gross. Your junk’s gonna rot in there.”

  
  


Dorian groaned, nose scrunching up in disgust as he turned to check his clothes again. Still damp. He hit the start button again to let them continue rolling. He had half a mind to send a pulse of fire or electricity into the contraption to get it working faster, but when one is being hunted, every unknown corner becomes a hidden camera. Between the vulgar southern Templars and the authority of House Pavus, there was simply too much risk.

  
  


His fellow Tevinter crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “But really, you can’t really pull off this air of mystery in that flannel. It doesn’t work on you.”

  
  


“It just wasn’t working out. It’s not Tevinter, it’s me -- which is to say it’s definitely Tevinter -- we wanted different things in our lives, so we decided to go our separate ways. Your turn, Ser…” 

  
  


“Cremisius Aclassi,” he said with a nod. “Just call me Krem. That’s what the chief went with -- it stuck with the rest of the Chargers.”

  
  


“Ah, yes, he went with a very simple ‘Vint’ for me, though not as laced with as much poison as usual.” Dorian opened the dryer once more, pulling out his outfit. Not his favorite, but a nice one he didn’t wear often enough, something he hoped would make him slightly harder to recognize. Ever confident, he began unbuttoning the borrowed shirt. Lazily looking up, he added, “Oh, and one ‘sweetcheeks,’ and while I am inclined to agree, I should like to hear something a little more suitable for my glory.” A soft set of abdominal muscles peeked out from under the fine black stubble that had begun to scratch at him during his journey. A dark green jewel twinkled at his navel. Over his chest sat a small silver necklace, a barely noticeable little circle with a faint engraving of a dragon rearing back.

  
  


Krem’s eye’s narrowed, warrior’s instinct zooming in on the Tevene writing around the crest. As soon as he processed the first syllable, Dorian’s tight black T-shirt was already back over his chest.

  
  


“Getting an eye-full, are you?” he drawled. “I’m flattered.”

  
  


“Where’d you say you were from again?” 

  
  


“I didn’t.” Dorian folded his trousers over his arm, handing the ragged flannel to the slightly shorter man. His voice soft was soft as he said, “Well, here you are. Thank you for this.”

  
  


He hesitated, then took his clothing in silence. Dorian slipped out the door. 

  
  
Sighing, Krem tied the shirt around his waist, then ran one hand over the shaved part of his undercut. He took out his phone, tossing the notifications from the Charger’s Facebook messaging group aside and opening the text from Anders.

 

 

The ex-soldier turned a corner, ascended the stairs, and entered a losing battle.

 

****

 

At least thirty-two pairs of wide eyes stared up at the group from about four feet off the ground. One child attempted to wipe the snot from under his nose, but only succeeded in smearing it.

  
  


Krem was smiling but kept his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose in amused exasperation. The chief was nearly giddy. His step had a bounce it it all the way to their tables. It took two to keep together the seven Chargers, the blond doctor, the bald-faced Dwarf, and the Tevinter escapee. 

  
  


Dorian had kept Krem’s jeans on with some irritation, only wavering when Anders noted that he could avoid looking too much out of place. He considered the intelligence in trying to pass himself off as someone of lower caste, and agreed under the reasoning he wouldn’t want to get any food on his nice trousers. The jeans clashed awkwardly with his dress shoes, but he kept up his confident strut regardless.

  
  


Their drink orders were taken; most of the Chargers ordered the swill the South attempted to call beer, with Anders and Dorian asking for water, which they were promptly teased for. The Elven waitress left them just as Bull and Rocky dashed off with fistfulls of the gold tokens they had gotten at the first opportunity.

  
  


Hanging in the corner of the room, a television played some cartoon with talking farm animals. Children ran around screeching, and the background was overflowing with flashing lights and ropes of tickets being twirled like ribbon.

  
  


Dorian leaned down with his chin on his hand, looking around at nothing in particular. While it was agreed he was not paying for his share of the meal, he was still a little embarrassed. Here he was, finally independent, finally free, and he was still locked onto others for support. 

  
  


The empty space on the table was covered in no time by large pizzas with so much bacon and sausage that the cheese was barely visible, and a few plates of bright orange chicken wings drowned in hot sauce. Dorian took one of the wings, biting down on it gingerly and frowning at the lack of any burn.

  
  


Meanwhile, Krem was red in the face halfway through his plate, holding back a cough.

  
  


“Cremisius, really. It’s barely mild -- you are shaming your homeland,” Dorian monotoned.

  
  


His mouth coated in a ring of sauce, the man swallowed and said, “Your Highness, you shame your status, picking up that glass all on your own! Shouldn’t you fetch your slaves?” He snatched up the piss-yellow alcohol, gulping it down and sticking out his tongue.

  
  


Dorian rolled his eyes. 

  
  


Varric perked up. “Oooh, Sparkler’s royalty. Where’s his tiara?”

  
  


“I most certainly am not.” He took a sip from his water and lied, “I’m a Laeten.”

  
  


Stomping in with a large stuffed bear in tow, the Iron Bull asked, “A what now?” as he sat down, taking up two chairs and putting his prize on the floor. He took one of the pizza slices and basically inhaled it, looking down at Dorian.

  
  


“Chew your food, you oaf, before you choke,” the mage scolded. “A Laeten, they’re-- we’re a middle class in Tevinter. Not as important as the Altus mages, but with a bit more privilege than the Soporati.”

  
  


“Ah, yeah,” Bull nodded between bites. “Sweet, sweet hierarchies.”

  
  


The conversation turned to a particularly exciting recount of the mission they had been on before they found Dorian. Skinner’s arms waved about as she recounted to Anders the captivating tale wherein they got a giant to chase them out of a cave for a noble -- who was promptly squished.

  
  


Dorian laughed despite himself.

  
  


His smile dropped when he saw the television set. 

  
  


A newscaster was rambling on about some traffic jam and making quips about a play happening a few cities over. A red banner along the bottom of the screen had text scrolling through it. First it simply had some note about a local politician. The next line had a missing persons report for a kidnapped Tevinter noble, last seen on the streets of Minrathous and thought to be a victim in a Qunari terrorist plot.

  
  


Bull’s smile never wavered, but he did catch the last half of the marqui just before a very large rat stepped in front of them, wearing a large purple jersey and looking at them through the dazed, unblinking eyes only a mascot could have.

  
  


Dancing a little, the worker complimented their win on the stuffed bear and made small talk about the food. 

  
  


They laughed along with the rat until he turned his attention to a birthday party happening at a nearby booth. 

  
  


Dorian’s heart raced in panic.


	5. tension and breaking masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting, but none between the Bull and Dorian -- and some secrets beginning to lose their secrecy.

The party left the restaurant as gently as they had stayed-- with Bull and Krem hooting out an encore for the robotic animals, with even Grim smiling as Skinner and Dalish clapped. Hands in his jean pockets, Anders smiled at Dorian with a glimmer of amusement in those gorgeous honey-gold eyes. Dorian slid a bit closer to him, ghosting the back of his hand against the man’s thigh with enough boredom in his distant gaze that it could have been called an accident.

 

The doctor got into his station wagon, with the Tevinter mage going up to the other side. The Chargers put on helmets, each very uniquely designed. Krem buckled the strap under his simple grey one. Bull’s was massive, angled to accomodate his wide set horns with straps to hook around them safely -- Dorian briefly wondered if he had to have it custom-made, or if Qunari horn diversity was wide enough to enable mass production. It looked as if it had taken a few hits to it, having lost its shine, with a few thin scratches to the black paint. 

 

The Bull heaved a leg over the seat. “Dorian! You sure you don’t want to ride with me? I’ll be gentle.” 

 

Varric had been leaning into the sidecar to grab his own cherry-red helmet, but stopped on hearing this and grinned. 

 

The Dwarf held the helmet out to Dorian. “C’mon, Sparkler!”

 

The man ignored them, opening the door to Anders’s car. “I’m sorry, men of my caliber prefer more refined methods of transport.”

 

“He’s chicken, Chief!” Krem yelled from his seat. The lieutenant gripped his own handlebars, ready to move.

 

Varric said, “No, no, I think he’s just concerned my helmet doesn’t go with his outfit.”

 

“Close!” the mage retorted, taking a seat beside Anders. “I simply do not care for helmet hair.”

 

The Bull leaned down and clapped Varric on the shoulder, gesturing to the side car. “Have it your way! The sweaty, messy look probably looks good on you, though.”

 

Even from the distance, the mage could have sworn he saw the giant of a man wink at him. With one eye. He scoffed, making sure to project his distaste to the Qunari, but the man was already revving his motor. 

 

“CHARGERS, MOVE OUT!” the Bull yelled, the picture of overdramatic intensity. His energy was matched by the hollering of his team, who followed out of the parking lot after Krem.

 

The blond’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh before he cranked the car. “I’d like to be able to say, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, they’re not  _ always  _ like this, believe me!’” He pulled out of the parking lot, adjusting his mirror and setting his turn signal to eventually follow the group. “But I’d like our friendship to be based in honesty.”

 

The Tevinter flashed an easy smile at him. “Oh, it’s not a problem.” He patted the man’s thigh, leaving his hand for a moment too long before bringing it back to his own lap, scrolling through his phone. “I quite appreciated the company.”

 

Anders laughed again, a breathy, nervous sound. They pulled into the road. 

 

Dorian checked a few news sources through his browser -- one Tevinter-run news source mentioned his disappearance, but thankfully it was one too buried in mundane information that took several “next slide” clicks for it to reach many people. It spelled his name incorrectly, anyhow, and the photo was a distant cousin rather than himself.

 

He began checking more major news outlets when Anders, attempting to make some conversation, asked, “So, I don’t know if you quite caught this over dinner, but the Chargers are heading to Orlais next.”

 

“Ah, yes, I believe I heard something about chickens and frightening the pants off some nobility. They must have quite the reputation.”

 

“I was wondering, are you joining them?” he kept his eyes firmly on the road. The group was now back in view, taking up most of the two lanes, Dalish and Skinner sitting in the back. The light turned green and they rumbled down the street once more.

 

Dorian frowned. “I hadn’t considered. Truthfully, I meant to just keep moving south.”

 

“Why? I mean, not to sound rude or anything, but -- are you going to the Conclave or something?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

The streets narrowed, with the sight of foreclosed stores and liquor stores coming back into view. Anders set another signal to pull into the parking lot of The Stuttering Chanter’s. The mercenary band was in multiple stages of demounting their bikes and removing their helmets.

 

The Bull waved to the station wagon, face bare and the massive cauldron of a helmet held under his arm.

 

Anders responded, “The Conclave. I didn’t know if they’d be sending anyone from Tevinter, you lot are basically the Templars’ worst nightmare.”

 

The mages exited the vehicle, and Dorian looked up into the clear blue sky.

 

“Truely? I had no idea locking up all your mages was the peak of ethics.”

 

Something white flickered in the blond man’s eyes, but it was gone when the altus looked again. “Don’t even get me started,” he said with a chuckle too dry to be sincere. “Honestly, that’s why I don’t trust this meeting enough to go. They can’t be trusted to broker any peace.”

 

Dorian mulled about this in silence, suddenly wondering if he should have paid more attention to international news if he were going to pick a country to flee to. His energy that last night in Tevinter was too high to focus on the details, he just needed to get out. Needed to move.

 

He was snapped out of his train of thought by a hubcap crashing against his shoulder -- or rather, some round thing just as huge and silver. The Bull’s hand gripped him loosely. 

 

“Hey there, big guy,” he laughed. “Hope you enjoyed your ride back -- I guess I would have been moving too fast for you. Let me make it up to you, you can pick the movie tonight. It’s our last night here, though, so pick something good. Something sexy, like Die Hard. Or that one mall cop movie.”

 

Dorian arched a brow. “Fascinating…” he muttered, gingerly batting at the man’s hand, pushing it off. He walked around the Qunari to enter the bar, heading towards the elevator. The group piled in around him, Krem only stopping to block off the Bull, demanding he take the next one up.

 

“Weight limit, Chief!” he yelled as the doors shut. The Qunari’s retort was inaudible.

 

They were so heavily packed in that the mage wondered if they would have hit this limit anyway. The numbers on the sign above the buttons were too faded to be certain. Crushed between Grim and the Anders, Dorian passed an apology to both for the awkward proximity. Grim responded with a grunt and a shrug, and the doctor responded with a considerably more flushed-face mumble. 

 

Dorian took the chance to wink, which won the approval Skinner, who immediately began to “oooh” while Rocky sang about the two kissing in a tree (with the same off-key howl he had harmonized with Bull and the animatronic cast of Chuck-E-Cheese). 

 

They headed down the hall with the volume and crudeness of a middle school cafeteria, stomping to the end of the hallway. Pouring into the room, they began ripping off the thick leather jackets and tossing them onto the bed again.

 

Dalish threw herself onto the pillows. Grabbing the remote, Rocky yelled up at Krem that it was his turn to pick the channel (Krem pulled rank, and was met by several “boo”s). Rolling his eyes at the sight, Dorian announced that he was going out to a vending machine, waiting for Varric acknowledge this with a thumbs up from his laptop, never making eye contact.  

 

He acted like he didn’t notice the way Anders stayed close to the door so their hips brushed as Dorian left. 

 

The elevator took him back down to the bar, mostly empty this time. The Bull was leaning against the counter, talking quietly with the older woman working for the night. She held a close resemblance to the younger man tending the bar when Dorian arrived yesterday, with deeper crevices in her cheeks and around her eyes. She smiled at the Qunari, an expression that dropped a little when Dorian approached.

 

“What can I get you, son?” she asked.

 

“I don’t suppose you have wine?”

She gestured to a line of bottles behind her, all fairly cheap brands Dorian associated with his youth escapes from his family’s estate -- middle class teenagers swiping bottles from their parents’ liquor cabinets in attempts to make the night feel a bit more adult, their tongues more bitter against each other. He selected one from the end to be overcharged for. 

 

“ID, please,” she recited, holding out her hand expectantly.

 

Dorian reached into his empty pocket, then patted the other.

 

Bull shook his head, and without looking at him, offered, “Back right pocket, I saw you put it there earlier.”

 

“...Oh.” He pulled it out along with a very large bill, frowning when the woman held it to the light to make sure it was real. He really should have exchanged the Tevinter currency for something smaller at the first bank he hit in Nevarra. He worried briefly at the realization he was in another country now, but the woman nodded and handed him back his change.

 

She looked to Bull. “And you, love?”

 

“You know what I like, Marie,” the Bull said, dropping a few crumpled bills to the counter with a grin. 

 

The woman smirked, handing the man a dark brown bottle of beer. Bull turned to face Dorian fully.

 

“Yeah, I notice things,” Bull said slowly. He glanced down at Dorian’s wallet, a clean brown color with a coiled snake stitched in at the top. “Comes with the training, I just see things people don’t notice.”

 

Dorian took up his drink, sipping it calmly. The bartender, Marie, was back to checking off notes on a clipboard. She took the broom leaning against one shelf and left the pair to sweep from the back.

 

“I notice things,” Bull continued, putting his drink down. It nearly disappeared in his hand. “Like where a light or ball in some game is rigged to go faster or slower, or how people pick up their drinks… or where they put their wallets… or television sets.”


	6. orlais or leave us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes the executive decision, while half-asleep and stoned, to stay with the Chargers while Varric and Anders make their separate plans to leave Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for smoking in this chapter -- weed, but implied Dorian has done other drugs. Also, Dorian is BPD as fuck and reads unclear emotions negatively.

The Bull had chugged the rest of his beer and stood, walking back to the elevator in silence. Shaking, the mage considered following him, then considered bursting through the doors, onto the street, and getting the fuck out of town. Maybe just laying down in traffic.

His hand was shaking too much to hold his wine properly. He nearly dropped it when Bull bellowed out from the elevator, “Don’t worry, pretty boy, I won’t tell anyone!” 

 

At this, Marie looked up from the dried mud and stray hair she’d swept into the center of the room. The older woman rose an eyebrow, grinning devilishly at them both before going back to cleaning. 

 

Mortified, Dorian stood to rush to the elevator, keeping his eyes straight and chin up. When he was finally squeezed in next to the bumbling oaf, he waited for the door to shut before grumbling, “You could have just said that at the bar.”

 

“I don’t like secrets,” Bull said with a shrug. “Keeping them so others stay safe, I get that, it’s not Marie’s business why you’re here. But it is my business to know if my men or I could be seen as a suspect in a rich boy kidnapping spree.”

 

He was at a loss for words. He stared down at his deep brown hands, already feeling the hatred pour from the creature beside him. The rage he could do nothing but return as if he stood a chance this close up. Fire crackled beneath his fingertips, threatening to rip them clean off.

 

Bull cleared his throat, raising one hand in defense, expression stern. “Whoa there, big guy. Where’s the fire?”

 

Inhaling the flame back through his fingertips, the mage tried to stand his ground unarmed. “Listen, brute, I don’t see why I should bawl out my life story to every single person I run into.”

 

“My memory is impeccable and I don’t remember saying you did. Only that I expect people to tell me when something affects the safety of my crew. Personally, I feel like that’s a very reasonable thing to want! But that’s just me.”

 

Sighing, Dorian attempted to apologize through tone. “No, you’re-- you’re right.” The rage still bubbled in him, but he saw none of it in the other man’s face. Perhaps buried. Had to be. “I want to assure you that you’re in no danger.”

 

“Wanting and doing,” the Bull said, suddenly closer in the tight space, “are very different things, Dorian.”

 

The mage’s stomach flipped - his name fit that tongue so strangely. The anger took a direction much further south than he had intended it to go, and his muscles clenched with the tension and need to let out every attack spell he could think of. Raise the dead up from beneath the floorboards, light the entire building on fire, solidify the remains in ice, shatter the entire thing in a lightning storm --

 

The Bull stepped away, pressing the button to go to their floor. Distantly, the mage wondered why he hadn’t noticed before that they weren’t moving.

 

“I cannot guarantee it,” he said finally. 

 

Bull only grunted.

 

“My father is looking for me. If he can spin this into some Qunari plot against Qunaris, he will,” the mage was descending into a mutter now as the elevator shakily ascended. “Anything to take the blame off himself.”

 

The doors opened. It took a few moments for Dorian to realize this, but Bull was stomping out and heading down the hall with a leisurely gait, as if the conversation had been about their favorite sports team’s current season, or what color nail polish they liked on their toes. Following in a daze suspended by vague anger, the Tevinter entered the room after him.

 

Apparently the movie had already been chosen, as the Chargers had shoved their coats off the spare bed to allow Grim and Rocky to lay down on their stomachs, heads in their hands, while Dalish and Skinner cuddled at the headboard. Between the two beds, Stitches sat on the floor beside Varric, who never broke his gaze from the television. 

 

A cloud of smoke trickled upward from Krem’s lips. He sat atop the bed closer to the bathroom, sheets in disarray and his legs crossed in front of a notebook covered in loose tobacco. The lieutenant passed a tightly rolled joint to Stitches down on the floor, then nodded at the new arrivals. 

 

“Oi, you lot were taking too long on your date, so we let Grim pick.”

 

The blond hummed, nodding a little. His face was drawn tight, but his fingers were fluttering lightly and he was rocking his head gently. 

 

The screen showed a beautiful blue sea, with a single, tiny blue tang fish in the center. The captions said she was crying for her parents, and the volume was loud enough to confirm this from down the hallway.

 

“Aw, Dory!” the Bull nearly  _ squeaked  _ the name in joy, heading to sit beside Krem, squeezing Anders against the lieutenant in the small space. Assessing the number of people present, the brunet opened another mango-flavored pack of cigarillos, breaking one open in a practiced, clean line. From a bag inside his crossed legs, he sprinkled in the green that smelled so sickly strong, Dorian felt a little light headed.

 

Unsure of how to proceed, the mage went to sit on the edge of the bed beside the Bull, looking at the doctor beside him.

Anders sighed when Krem lit the new joint to take the first hit, his cough banging against his chest as if it were imprisoned. 

 

“Cremisius, you shouldn’t smoke while you’re wearing-- uh,” he stopped himself, looking at Dorian.

 

Grabbing hold of the conversation, the lieutenant shook his head and cut in, “Yes, thank you, mother, I will certainly take it off as soon as possible -- d’you want a hit, in the meantime?”

 

The blond man’s eyes flickered white-blue again. Turning towards the ex-soldier, the doctor let out a booming voice that seemed to echo from a lost place within him. “Our body must be clear of toxins, mind ready to fight for the plight of mages at any moment,” the voice came from every corner of the room, as if being thrown from a distant tear in the Fade.

 

Bull tensed while Krem laughed, though it broke into a cough as Anders’s body fell back. The blond man’s face was flushed when his eyes went back to their normal color, the cracks of light disappearing from his pores. He looked to Bull apologetically. The rest of the Chargers were only half paying attention, though Varric had a half grin when he took the joint out of the lieutenant’s hand, taking a hit before passing it off to Stitches. 

 

“Um,” was all Dorian could say as Krem stood up on the bed, walking off the edge and shutting the bathroom door behind him.

 

The Iron Bull crossed his arms, a scowl heavy on his face. “You did that on purpose!” he yelled to the bathroom. “Sorry, Doc, that just… freaks me out a little. Fucking demons.”

 

“Justice isn’t a demon, he’s a spirit,” the doctor said, sighing with the weariness of someone who has had this conversation so many times the arguments were embedded into his tongue. Turning to Dorian, he apologized, “I’m so sorry, I know that’s a little scary for other people.”

 

“Oh, definitely not!” Dorian said, eyebrows raised. “Why, you can’t turn a street corner in Tevinter without bumping into at least three possessed men. Drives the priests mad. So many exorcisms killing their spare time for golf.”

 

“I’m not possessed!” Anders huffed. “Justice needed a body, I was willing to share mine. He came to me when I needed him. We’re a multiple system, there’s a little give-and-take involved, but ultimately, we’re healthier together than apart.”

 

The Qunari was still grumbling, though he’d stopped holding himself apart from the man, leaning back to continue watching the movie. An octopus was on screen now, and Dalish was giggling with the joint in her hand. Rocky had turned over and tucked himself into Grim. From the rise and fall of him, he looked to be asleep. 

 

The bathroom door opened again, and Krem stepped out, shirt replaced with a baggy hoodie that only barely hid his chest. It was slightly more noticeable when he sat down; Bull and Anders eyed Dorian carefully for his reaction. 

 

Immediately, the mage relaxed. 

 

Krem pulled the bright orange sleeves up. “Get a good look at everything, pretty boy?” he asked, picking up the paraphernalia left on the bed to drop it on the end table. Noticing the look on the man’s face that said he was searching for an inoffensive response, the lieutenant followed up with, “Yes, I’m trans, and yes, if you talk shit, you will get hit with the combined efforts of the chief and myself. And whoever else wants to join in. Skinner will take any excuse to beat down some shems.”

 

Hearing her name and the invitation to violence, Skinner whooped, only to be shushed by Grim, who was still glued to the movie.

 

Dorian paused. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but -- does that have anything to do with why you left Tevinter?”

 

The man looked away once, then looked back sternly. “Yes, but that conversation is too serious for right now.” One of the two joints in rotation made its way back to him, halfway burned through. He took it up, letting the smoke pour out of his nose. “Chief, look! I’m a dragon!”

 

“Ugh, that’d be so badass. Can you turn into one? Shape-shift with some blood magic?”

 

Krem laughed, skipping the doctor and offering the drug to Dorian. Eyeing it carefully, Dorian took it up -- he was no stranger to this situation, though typically the youth he’d fell into company that used pipes full of very different substances. Instead of the rush he was used to, a brilliant smog filled him, yellowing his field of view. The music of the movie lifted up into a crescendo, as if the waves of the ocean within wished to submerge them all.

 

Exhaling only to huff the pillars of smoke back into his nostrils, he held the joint up to Bull a moment before he realized it would disappear under his massive fingertips. The Qunari laughed, patting down on the man’s thigh.

 

“Call shotgun!” Varric whooped from the floor, leaning onto the bed against his forearms. 

 

Looking to the Bull from half-lidded eyes, Dorian shrugged, supposing it made sense, though a deep red pooled in his cheeks to match the dull thud of shock in bubbled in chest. The Qunari made no move, simply smirked and looked towards the television. Then he looked back down, and leaned forward.

 

Taking a slow drag from the paper, Dorian tilted his head up, letting the smoke dance over his lips, gracefully tickling the other man’s. A chuckle rumbled beneath his eternally bare chest, and he strapped the smoke inside their locked mouths.

 

The mage felt the slow inhale from inside him, then let a soft chill trickle up his dry throat to turn the air crisp. He grunted when he felt a tongue swipe across his, but it all pulled back just as soon, and the behemoth of a man was hovering over him again, letting the residual smoke pour from his lips. 

 

Even seeing Cremisius leaning backwards so comfortably, and the elven women tucked into one another’s arms, and the men huddled together on the floor and beds, Dorian’s throat still threatened to close in on itself. His heart raced, as if being dragged underwater in a cannabis fog, the wake bubbling up like vomit.

 

Even the softness of the mattress seemed wrong now. The screen showed a mass of blue fish huddled together, tightly, as if they had never needed each other as much as they did at that moment. Dorian saw this all in the room but at the eye of the whirlpool, he drowned. 

 

A bright pair of red-rimmed eyes looked at him in concern, a familiar accent dripping from his northern roots declaring, “Chief, did you suck his soul out?”

 

The echo lingered in the dark-skinned man’s chest as he looked up at the sworn enemy of his countrymen. What should have been a mindless animal just laughed with a warm smile and rubbed his back gently. 

 

The anxiety did not wear down even when the lights dimmed and the blinds closed to block out the orange of the rising sun. Everything turned bright red for awhile in a dreamless sleep for the mage, then he was being shaken up and asked in a hushed voice by an angel-haired elf, “Do you want to go with us to Orlais, or do you want to stay here with Anders?”

 

And he was whispering back beyond his control that of course he wanted to go, to leave, to join them. The air was inhumanly cold outside, and he was being tucked into a thick coat heavy with tobacco. A wide man was pulling him into a hug, giving him a peck on the cheek and demanding he get a text from the first stop along the road. 

 

Strategic sense among the group said he belonged in the back, so he hugged Dalish’s waist before they decided he could not hold himself up enough at this hour of the morning. He was trading places with a red-haired dwarf, who told them all he needed to stay with the doctor anyway.

 

“He’s got to get out of Kirkwall, soon -- they found out he’s treating the casualties he caused,” a gruff voice said. “I’m making sure he gets out before I go to Haven. I got called for a book signing!”

Dorian felt himself being tucked into a small pod, a helmet blocking in his head before he could protest. In a blink, they were out of the city and in the midst of cornfields and a cotton candy sky.

 

Looking up at the black jacket against the bright pink motorcycle, the mage felt the Iron Bull coming into sharper focus. Then he let the hum of the tires against concrete rock him to sleep.

  
  
  



	7. mental illness onset symptoms and card-carrying members of mercenary gangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang sets out to get a job done, responds as a group to a trauma flashback, and Dorian starts the process of trying to get his shit together.

His bed was so cramped, and one of his father’s servants had clearly left the windows open overnight -- the chill was strange for a Tevinter summer. Suddenly, the bed began to slide like a rollercoaster on a sharp turn.

 

Dorian’s eyes jerked open to see a gas station ahead, and a large, horned man in a tacky leather jacket hovering over him. Panic and relief tangled within him at the memory of him leaving home with nothing but the clothes on his back. Clearly, even that wasn’t sufficient; he shivered, hugging himself tighter.

 

The circle of bikes poured into a line, and they each stood around chattering, filling tanks and pulling out the wads of cash to go in to pay. Dorian watched as Grim slunked out of the shop, coffee in hand.

 

Most of the lot was empty, save for a cerulean pick-up truck parked in front of the small store. The name was unfamiliar, so it didn’t seem to be part of a chain. The windows were plastered with ads for cigarettes and pizza so thick with grease it would tear through the box. A few newspaper kiosks sat in front of the store, the front pages full of mostly local news, with one for country-wide Nevarran news.

 

“You want anything?” Bull asked, cracking his neck. His helmet was on the seat, and he ran his hands over the rough, bald skin of his head.

 

Distracted briefly by the curiosity of what it would feel like to touch, Dorian began to nod and shake his head at the same time. “I can provide for myself just fine, thank you.”

 

“Okay, how many sugars? Cream? You strike me as a cream guy.”

 

“Really, now--”

 

Some indiscernible grunt  left the man, and he turned to go in. Dorian huffed when he came out with both hands full -- a small coffee and a Big Gulp of some weird, pukey hue that he had filled with a shot of every single fountain drink available. He handed the piping hot coffee over to the mage, his mouth catching his own straw at the same time. While the charity was mildly infuriating, Dorian had to admit (silently, to himself) that the warmth was welcome.

 

“If you like that, we can stop at some bar later down the road -- that’ll probably heat you up a little more.”

 

“You know,” Dorian quipped, “If this whole, um,” he waved his hand in a circle, eyeing the man up and down, “Big, bad, buff mercenary-assassin-whatever thing doesn’t work out for you, you should consider going into fortune telling. Maybe tell people what their dead loved ones want to say from _beyooond the graaave_!” He added a theatrical, haunting lilt to the last phrase, delighting in the scowl it brought from his travelling companion.

 

“Uh, I don’t need any magicky demon crap to know how to read people,” the merc scoffed. “Besides, I get where you’re coming from, I grew up in Par Vollen. It’s pretty hot there. I’ve been to Tevinter a few times.”

 

“Business or pleasure?”

 

“Bit of both.” A one-eyed wink thrown in for good measure. “Pretty humid. Different climate, same heat. Kinda like looking through a fire, all wiggly in some spots.”

 

Smiling despite himself, the mage felt a soft pang in his chest. He looked down at his drink, then took a sip, murmuring his assent. It was slightly bitter before the thickness of the cream hit his throat, massaging out the rough patches inside his mouth.

 

“Thank you. For the coffee.”

 

The Iron Bull nodded, picking his helmet back up. “Let me buy you a real drink later.”

 

“Oh, was I drinking air just now?” he shot back, unable to reel himself in.

 

“Probably!” the Qunari said. “I don’t pretend to understand you ‘Vints and your blood magic sustenance.”

 

Suddenly, the drink was too sweet, and Dorian’s stomach churned at the very mention of that abominable form of sorcery. Blinking, he felt his chest cave in, every bone screaming with the memory of the hard stone floor raking across his shoulder blades, the light glowing over him seeming so impossibly dark. The pain in his sinuses, as if his brain were being shredded apart and yanked out through his nostrils and ears.

 

He flinched when a face came closer, too dark to be his father, hair too short. His skin burned -- he felt blood pouring over his arm and chest, boiling against his shirt and trickling from the splatter.

 

A distant voice in an unfamiliar accent carved through his terror. “Dorian? Hey, it’s okay, breathe with me -- one of you run in and get something to clean this up!”

 

Stitches’s face came into focus a little better. The mage looked down to see his coffee half-empty, most of it on his torso. Dorian sighed, a long, deflating noise of aggravation. The dwarf came over with his arms deep in the hoodie he wore under his leather jacket, yanking out several paper towels and handing them to the healer.

 

Taking matters into his own hands, Dorian stood from the side car, accepting the towels and wiping himself off. He eased a spell into the fabric, sucking out the liquid -- it wouldn’t help the nasty stain that was forming, but if he angled his blazer just right, it didn’t matter very much.

“Sorry about that!” he tried to keep his shuddering voice even and jovial, discarding the towels into the nearest bin. “The mind gets a little fuzzy when crammed in a tiny, little cab for so long.”

 

Krem eyed him uncertainly, then shrugged, taking the maul off his back and resting it against his bike. “I’m going to grab you another drink, and you can’t say no.”

 

The altus was too shocked by the size of the hammer to protest. It was definitely impressive seeing the dragon’s head mounted on a pike of a staff when they were in the motel, but Dorian had assumed it belonged to the biggest person in the room. Looking to him, Dorian noticed the sheathed sword Bull had. While it was about the height and width of Rocky, it seemed proportional to the Qunari’s stature. Looking again to the decorative skull on the front of the brute’s bike, the maul was much larger, though less intricately carved.

 

Krem (who had returned, gingerly handing the extremely bitter dark roast to the mage) was, by comparison, almost the same size as his weapon.

 

“How do you even lift that?” Dorian blurted, blinking heavily and trying to keep himself from gripping the cup too hard in his shaking hands, left the cardboard cave in on itself.

 

“Lift with your arse, not your back!” Dalish yelled, cackling.

 

The displaced Soporati rolled his eyes, then rubbed his neck. “I started small. Worked my way up. Guess you magisters don’t need to do that, though -- you just flick your wrist,” he held his hand out limply, placing the other on his hip, “and magic up a slave to hold it for you.”

 

“There was so much wrong with that sentence, I don’t even know where to begin,” the mage sighed. He sipped his new coffee.

 

The parking lot was filling up, though not much more than it already was. A few teenagers on skateboards rolled in, gaping at the gang of bikers and elbowing each other, heads ducked in whispers. One boy, shaggy hair chucked under a tattered beanie, refused to break eye contact with them. He stood outside the store, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat and lighting one up as his friends headed inside.

 

An older, bald man stepped out, leaning on a large wooden cane . He held a black bag in his arm. Glancing over to the boy, he opened his mouth to speak, though he was too far away for Dorian to make out a peep. Whatever he said seemed to irritate the boy, who turned away promptly. The old man shrugged, then snapped his fingers in the air. As he walked away, the teenager took his cigarette from his mouth, holding up a lighter and furrowing his brow in frustration as it refused to spark.

 

The old man neared the front of the lot, paying no mind to the motorcycles taking up most of the space in front of the gas pumps. He stepped back onto the highway, bare feet scraping against the concrete.

 

Bull grunted, a frown curling at his lip. “Mages,” he mumbled. “No offense.” He shot down to Dorian, glancing over at Dalish.

 

“Oi, I’m an _archer_!” the elven woman insisted. “The only apostate here is your little ‘Vint friend.”

 

Bull went back to grumbling, huffing a brief sigh before flinging himself back over his bike. “Chargers! Horns up!” He revved the engine, waiting on the rest of the group to pop their helmets back on and mount their motorcycles.

 

A cacophony of accents bellowed back the phrase in nothing close to synchronization. Dorian glanced down at his coffee, chugging what was left.

 

The exit was slow. The highway came back to them with open arms, impossibly wide and full of massive trucks and tiny family cars whipping by on either side of them. In a straight line, they took up most of the lane, peeling back down through the countryside.

 

Dorian watched the fields of cotton and cows surrounding bales of hay as they melted into tiny family homes and gleaming skyscrapers. As the hours passed, the sun beginning its descent past the orange-pink sky, the bridge lifted them up above a massive city. Gold-framed pastels adorned so many shops, and rather than the typical straightforward office buildings Dorian was accustomed to seeing in large cities, and the ground below was full of what looked almost like cathedrals, spiking into the sky with massive sculptures adorning the sides, arches hugging the clouds.

 

Faint trumpeting filled the air, though the source was difficult to pinpoint. The tune seemed light and celebratory.

 

A sign of blindingly white stone welcomed them to Val Royeaux, Orlais, -- first in the Common tongue of Thedas, then in the flowy script of Orlesian.

 

Swerving onto an exit, the bikers whooped and cheered as they finally came into the city. They filled the parking lot at some tiny dinner. Despite the loud entrance, they were a picture of politeness and silence as they filed in, taking up a booth and a few chairs. The wide eyed waiter mostly kept his eyes on Bull, understandably.

 

The dishes were heavy with vegetables and mostly pasta; Dorian recalled enough Orlesian to order for himself. The elderly waiter seemed relieved, his Common stilted and limited to what he needed for food orders. They exchanged pleasantries before the man sauntered away to hand off the order.

 

The diner only had a few patrons present, mostly elderly, all dressed very colorfully. The oddest feature were the garish masks most wore, with pointed noses and bright cheeks. Some had placed theirs on the table to clear the space over their mouths, though some had solved this dilemma with ones that only covered half of their faces.

 

The burgers they were brought were heavy with eggplant, and the wheat buns seemed golden, yet light… Dorian was sure it was just how hungry he was. He looked out the window to the stores that lined the street. The cars that rolled by were mostly white, roofless vehicles made of curves and rounded edges.

 

Bull belched, bringing Dorian’s attention to him. “So! Uh, tomorrow morning we’re going to start the job for -- Krem, what’s the guy’s name?”

 

“Somethin’ with too many vowels, Chief.”

 

Bull gestured broadly to his lieutenant, eyes on Dorian. “Yeah, that guy. Nothing too fancy, just a simple… disruption.” He glanced over the mage’s shoulder at a woman eating by one of the windows. She stood, dropping a few dollars to the table before walking down the aisle to exit. As she passed the group, her face twisted momentarily with disgust, evident with her exposed mouth beneath the copper mask.

 

Unfazed, the man crossed his arms over the tabled. A skinny elf came by to pick up their plates and drop off the check. Each dug through their pockets and dropped off a few wads of cash; Dorian started to do the same, but this time Skinner shook her head, putting down a few colored notes. Briefly, the Tevinter wondered why they all seemed to already have Orlesian currency, though he imagined this sort of thing must have been arranged --  Bull was a very thorough planner when he needed to be.

 

Continuing, the Qunari said, “Anywho… I get if you don’t want to stay in a city like this, but trust me, it’s probably more forgivable to look like a ‘ _kidnapped_ _celebrity_ ’ in a large city compared to one of the countryside small towns we passed through to get here. Of course, you’re welcome to stick around as long as you feel the need to have some, uh, big, strong men protecting you.” He grins, flashing his teeth -- and the mage covered his mouth to muffle a shocked snort at the sight of lettuce jammed in the center.

 

“You wish,” Dorian managed. “I see your point, though. I could definitely make myself comfortable here…”

 

Krem chimed in, “The slavery in this place might not be up to your Vinty standards, though.”

 

Leaning forward onto the table, Skinner looked between them all. “Pretty boy might have to run himself as one, as good as what he’s got in his wallet!”

 

Bull shrugged. “We can get him off to a decent start.”

 

Shaking his head, Dorian scoffed, “I don’t need the charity, I’ll figure something out. I’m _very_ resourceful, I’ll have you know.”

 

“Calm down, big guy,” Bull cut in. “I wasn’t suggesting a hand-out. Tell you what, if you help us out with this job, I can give you a cut of the pay. We can charge so much more with a mage. Use that, and your resourcefulness, and start practicing your Orlesian.”

 

The Tevinter was still, feeling too many pairs of eyes fixed on him, each expression equally blank. They felt so detached from him, floating sets of consciousness too hard to read on their perception of him. A judgmental fog flew through his mind, and he dropped his eyes to the table, picking up a napkin to tear at idly. He hummed.

 

Krem offered, “I volunteer to _personally_ help you pick out an apartment.”

 

Smiling, Dorian’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. He looked up, nodding. “But I don’t have a staff -- I’m a little useless with bigger spells without that. I doubt you only need me to warm up Monsieur Vowels’s coffee and _boom!_ Condo in Val Royeaux.”

 

Bull shook his head and responded, “Don’t worry, we’ll provide a staff. I’ll fill you in on the job details when we get to the motel. They want us up to their little vanilla --”

 

“ _Villa_ , Chief.”

 

“That, too -- tomorrow morning to get the job location. That gives you all of tonight until checkout tomorrow night to get your claws in.”

 

“As if I’d need more than _half_.”

 

Laughing, the Iron Bull reached out his hand, with one finger ending in a stump before the nail and a silver ring adorning the knuckle of another. “Welcome to the Bull’s Chargers, Dorian. We’re happy to have you aboard.”

 

Rolling his eyes, the mage sat still and silent for a few moments, then took the man’s hand. It squeezed down on him, quickly yet softly.

  
Bull shook his hand, and at once, the entire group bellowed at eardrum tearing volume, yet finally in some degree of chorus, “ _HORNS UP!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. My computer fucked itself and I had a really rough semester last year. Things are looking up more now so I came back to this. I promise I haven't abandoned it and I have SO MANY plans for this.


	8. housing situations and job applications: a guide for runaways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian plants his roots in Val Royeaux. Short chapter.

The motel was actually nice, as far as cheap motels go. The walls inside and out were the same white eggshell stone, with clean peach carpets, though faded with age, and gold paint peeling around every window and door. Two large beds sat against opposite walls, both with thin white blankets and incredibly fluffy pillows. The beds were round, which made the dimensions of the room a little awkward to navigate, particularly for Bull. He squeezed through the center, muttering about humans and their weird room arrangements.

 

The group piled their weapons by the door, piling onto the beds and letting themselves sigh into the blankets. Grim took one of the pillows and held it over his face while Dalish looked for an outlet to plug in her phone.

 

Krem grabbed Dorian’s shoulder, and reminded him, “There’s probably a website you can check for apartments around here, let’s start looking!”

 

Nodding, the mage affirmed, “Sounds good -- I do kind of want to look around for jobs here. No offense, but I don’t think I’ll be able to continue this temporary mercenary career choice after you lot leave.” 

 

“Softie.”

 

Krem laid back on one of the beds with Dorian sitting cross-legged beside him. Flipping through his phone, the ex-soldier presented different options to the man every few minutes while Bull showed him some of the messages they already had from the employer. The job was simple enough -- it was more or less a robbery, and the skills seemed more suited to a band of rogues, but nobles were always strange. The benefits of having a mage in the endeavor would be in the ability to at least reduce the evidence to as little as possible. Questions of the ethical nature of the work bubbled in his gut, but he pressed them down, pushing the need to have some way of starting off here. Besides, the Chargers had already given him so much, and it only made sense to pay  _ them _ back somehow. 

 

Most of the housing options were too expensive, but Dorian tried not to become discouraged. He suggested instead to begin looking through local job listings. Unsurprisingly, many were retail positions, and Dorian had Krem make notes of many of them for the two to check in on. 

 

Dorian stopped to the bathroom to wash his face and fix his eyeliner, straightening his hair enough to look somewhat presentable while Krem figured out a route to take.

 

As the men left, Bull waved to them, grinning to Dorian. “Go get ‘em, tiger!” 

 

Shouts of encouragement and requests to return with food came from the group (with funding to do so thrust upon the pair) as they assembled to watch a black-and-white Orlesian film Grim had found playing on one of the local cable channels. 

 

Krem tucked his hands into his pockets, rattling off the names of some of the stores they were stopping by in order, mentioning some of the apartments that were close by. The motel was actually very close to the first one, a simple little convenience store that was, unfortunately, closed for the evening. They crossed the street, watching as cars passed by, along with the occasional horse. Children on bicycles weaved around them on the sidewalks, shouting in Orlesian (and occasionally in Common), though they seemed more amused than bothered.

 

The next stop was a clothing store on the corner of an intersection, where a red-haired woman turned them away apologetically due to Dorian’s lack of resume. He winced, having not considered the issue hiding his identity might have with his job prospects.

 

After the same issue came up at the next three stores, Dorian sat down on one of the benches beside a bus stop, his hand in his heads, shaking with depression that warped into terror and bled into rage. He was going to wind up starving on the streets, dead, a forgotten castaway, rotting in his exodus. Tears dripped on the sidewalk just as rain began to heave into his back in thick drops. He flung his head back, groaning with disgust at the clouds that mocked him, standing in a huff, and trying to keep himself from pacing. 

 

Krem came closer, looking guarded. “Dorian. Look, we’ll find something. There’s a few other places--” he glanced down at his phone. “Chief -- uh, okay.” He looks to Dorian. “That diner we ate at today, Grim wants one of those eggplant burgers they had, and Chief said to go ahead and get everyone something to eat from there.”

 

Shrugging absently, Dorian mumbled, “Lead the way, Cremisius.”

 

It was a very steep uphill walk, and the burn in Dorian’s legs made it difficult for him to float away from his body like he wished to. Instead he had to look at all the skinny trees that adorned the lawns of the place, with the white paved roads and excess of fountains -- nearly one in every yard. Seemed a little extra for a dentist’s office.

 

When they finally came to the diner, it was mostly empty, and Dorian would have thought it closed had the same man from before not immediately reached down to grab a notepad.

 

Krem asked, “Do you do takeout?”

“Take… out?” the man repeated, uncertainly. “That is made of what?”

 

Dorian waved his hand, translating to Orlesian roughly and describing more in Common.

 

“Oh! Yes!” the man affirmed, smiling and taking the long list of orders from Krem, offering bottled drinks from a cooler near the front counter to make the transport easier. They were told it would take nearly half an hour for the food to cook, and in the meantime the two sat at the table in wait.

 

Krem said, “Don’t freak out just yet. Hey, it’s like they say even -- Val Royeaux wasn’t built in a day.”

 

Dorian scowled. “Maybe not, but I haven’t got much time, have I?”

 

“Call into places when we get back! Plenty of places are probably hiring in this city. It’s huge, Dorian, we’ve only just started.”

 

A young human woman with long, dark hair and a silver mask came with the check, and Krem gave her the stacks of pastel bills passed on by the Chargers. She thanked him, leaving to get his change while the old man returned with the meals. It was packed into a large box rather than a bag, though this seemed more reasonable for the task.

 

“Ah,” the man began, turning to Dorian and asking in Orlesian, “ _I overheard you are looking for a job?_ ”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Dorian replied, straightening up hopefully. 

 

“ _Do you have a resume?_ ” 

 

He slumped down, eyes falling back onto the table. “... _n-no, I apologize_.”

 

The man shrugged, then waved his hand. “ _That is no problem. Are you fluent in Orlesian?_ ”

 

Dorian nodded vigorously. “ _I speak Common, Orlesian, Old Fereldan, Modern Tevinter, Ancient Tevinter, a little bit of Dalish but not a lot, a few words in Qunlat, and--_ ”

 

Shaking with laughter, the old man ran his hand over his bald head, wiping the other on his button-up shirt. He was very tall, and carried himself a bit like a praying mantis. He had only the half of his face covered in a dark green mask, his mouth and grey beard exposed. “ _Okay, enough -- you seem like a nice boy. We need someone else to take orders, right now it is just me. Lina, the Dalish girl, is the better cook, and tonight is Marie’s last night here._ ”

 

The mage gaped, then covered his mouth. He jumped up, restraining himself from hugging the man by taking his hand instead to shake it. “ _Thank you so much_ ,” he whispered.

 

“ _It is no problem. Tell me, where are you living? I should know where to write your check to._ ”

 

Dorian dropped his hand, scratching the back of his head. “ _Uh, actually, you see, I’m -- I’ve just moved here, but I don’t exactly have a place to stay._ ”

 

“ _I see. Well, if you like, my wife and I are renting a bedroom in our house -- but you would not receive full payment your first week to make up for the rent. You live with me, I just pay you directly_.”

 

Crossing his arms over his chest, the box planted on the table, Krem shouted in Tevinter, “ _I can be mysterious, too!_ ” Then added in Common, “What are we talking about?”

 

The old man turned to the ex-soldier, folding his hands together. “He lives with me, I give him a job.”

 

“Oh,” the brunette said. He nodded, standing up and taking the box of food in his arms. “That solves everyone’s problems then. Let’s go back and eat, now.”

 

The old man paused, putting a hand on Dorian’s shoulder and looking down to the mage. “Wait -- what is your name?”

 

“Um, Dorian--” Krem began, stopping himself when he realized it might be better to hide the mage’s name, in case the man ever tuned into the news that was no doubt still going around about him. 

 

Cupping his hand to his ear, the diner owner inquired reluctantly, “Dor-is? I’m a bit hard-of-hearing, you must speak up.”

 

Krem noticed the tiny hearing aid facing the side Dorian stood on. Dorian looked up and nodded. “Yes, Doris. Doris Aclassi.”

 

Smiling with what looked like amusement, the old man inhaled, patting Dorian on the back. “Thank you, Doris! Please, come back tomorrow evening and get started. My wife and I will prepare the room.”

 

Krem bumped his hip to Dorian’s when they left, and Dorian smiled, bumping back, a skip returning to his step as he chattered on about the luck of it all on the downhill walk back to the motel. It seemed shorter, more full of light.

 

The Chargers greeted them with delight, launching up to grab their drinks from Dorian’s satchel and the boxes labelled with their orders inside the larger one Krem set on the floor. A wrestling match was on now, with Rocky and Bull glued to the screen. 

 

Skinner stepped out of the bathroom, hair soaked from the shower, telling Krem to go check out the tiny soap bars they had carved into fish shapes. 

 

Dorian sat on one of the beds, opening his food -- a huge serving of noodles and bright red peppers. Bull took his own burger out, adding fries on top of the meat.

 

“By the way, I found you a staff,” Bull said, pointing to the door. A thin white rod with a silver wrapping holding the emerald at the tip stood by it. “It folds up into a few pieces to hide in your bag -- the Orlesian templars aren’t as panicky as the Fereldan ones, but it wouldn’t hurt to hide your apostate status from the general public anyway.”

 

The altus hadn’t considered how going into Fereldan would affect him, should he ever wish to smell the stench of wet dog all day. So much of it was rural and hidden away, though, and apparently they were so involved in their own political issues at the moment they probably couldn’t know much about what was happening in Tevinter at the moment. Still, he did have something set up here, and Val Royeaux was more like he was used to. 

 

He stood and took the tool in hand, testing what Bull had said. It was strange design, no doubt intended for apostate survival, but it was impressive by any standards. Dorian tested it, sending a wave of healing magic throughout the room, earning a contented sigh from everyone. Rocky rolled his shoulders; Stitches twisted his back and cracked his knuckles.

 

He put it in his satchel, letting it sit there for the night. Returning to sit by Bull, he beamed and said, “I got a job, by the way. And he’s letting me stay in his house.”

 

“Do you always sleep with your bosses?” Bull teased, winking (making this gesture obvious with the way he smirked towards the shutting eye) and leaning forward. 

 

Dorian tensed, trying to will himself not to blush. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

Laughing and returning to his food, Bull left the mage to his thoughts.

 

They turned into bed earlier than usual, setting multiple alarms and taking various places to sleep on the two beds. Some wrapped their arms or tossed their legs over each other, others simply let their limbs fall to their sides.

 

Dorian felt Bull lay down on his back, arms crossed over his sides. This left Dorian pressed between him and Skinner, who had her back to him. In the dark, Dorian lay on his stomach, tossing to each side in attempt to get comfortable under the blanket, which was so thin it was nearly transparent. Laying on one side meant he was looking at Skinner’s back with Krem’s arms around it, his head on her shoulder, which felt too intimate to look upon despite how casual the affection was -- and perhaps it was the fact it was casual affection that made it unusual for the mage, which made his heart twinge a little with longing.

 

Turning on his other side meant he was looking at the bare chest of this man beside him, with his muscled arms and round stomach, which all looked so rough and firm but when his skin brushed Dorian’s in the rise and fall of his breath, it turned out to be soft. Even the hair on his arms seemed silken, and he emitted heat like summer concrete from his silver skin. 

 

Sliding closer, Dorian pressed himself against the man, heart racing as he fretted over the Ben-Hassarath waking up. His breathing never changed, however, so Dorian risked putting a hand to the man’s side.

  
A larger hand fell on top of his, and the anchor it gave him let him slip into dreams about living in the city.


	9. lotus blossoms and shaving cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian runs his first mission as an honorary Charger, and then begins his life apart from them. Warning: bit of gore in this chapter, as per the job.

The entire room seemed to jolt awake at once, everyone’s phones buzzing and ringing underneath them at the crack of dawn. Dorian pulled his face away from Bull’s chest, clearing his throat and pulling out the burner phone he’d gotten. No messages.

 

Everyone tried to squeeze into the bathroom at once, brushing their teeth and grabbing their leftovers for breakfast. After about an hour, they were on the road, Speeding through town and going through back roads, the woods giving way to a large expanse of land, with trees dotting the driveway to the gated in house. 

 

Parking out front, Krem knocked on the door, waiting on a man to open the door and gesture for them to hurry inside.

 

The foyer was dark, and the man’s face was completely obscured by a gold mask with a pointed nose. His clothes were lacey and bold, his hands gloved. “I trust you were discrete in coming… Very well. I have the maps here, one to the estate, and one of the inside. The safe should be in the office.”

 

Bull crossed his arms. “We have a mage on the outfit now, you know that costs more--”

 

“You’ll get your money as soon as I get everything in the safe.”

 

Grunting, Bull extended his hand to reach for the pages, then paused, glancing up to the staircase before them. He stepped aside. Bewildered, the noble started to turn, only to be met with an arrow piercing the side of his skull. Blood spouted through his ear, and he collapsed to the ground.

 

Krem lifted his maul up. Quickly flicking his staff together, Dorian prepared a lightning spell.

 

“Oi!” a shout came from the dark. “Don’t get your britches in a bunch. I only came for ‘im. I don’t give a rat’s arse about you lot.”

 

“What the fuck?” the Iron Bull ased. “Kid, who’s going to pay us now?”

 

“Pay yourselves! See what treasure he wanted. Has to be worth something if a baddie went to all the trouble for it.”

 

Skinner stepped forward, demanding to know who was talking, but they were only met with a giggle before whoever it was retreated.

 

Sighing deeply, Krem reached down for the papers, holding them up to Bull. “Think she’s right, Chief?”

 

“Well, it’s not like we’ve got anything else to do today!” Bull grumbled, thrusting his sword back into its sheath and turning around, stomping out furiously and mounting his bike. The rest of the team filed after him while Dorian set down wards to erase their prints. 

 

The location was relatively close by, a large estate that seemed eerily empty. It took a few minutes for them to make work of the lock and slip in. A few tables were knocked over, and paper was strewn over the tiles.

 

“Looks like somebody already robbed this place…” Krem observed in a low voice.

 

Dorian kept a defensive spell held tightly in his core, ready to strike if anyone were still there. The windows of the courtyard were reflecting a neon green light, and the Tevinter looked outside in confusion.

 

Shards of glass then sprayed against the floor. Dorian let his spell loose, shielding everyone just as a spindly figure flew in front of them. It seemed rotted, as if its entire body were charred, and it was incredibly tall. It slashed at them, tearing through the barrier Dorian had thrown up.

 

Krem launched at it with his maul, and everyone else assumed their positions as more demons assaulted them.

 

Bull gave wide sweeps of his weapon, roaring at their foes and slamming into them. As per the map, once the demons were mostly clear, the group ran through the courtyard to the other side, looking in horror at the green slash going through the air. The sky seemed warped around it, as if looking too long would cause one to become less solid. Around it, the Fade seemed to shriek. Dorian looked at Dalish to see if she felt it, and her face was slack with terror.

 

They made it to the upper wing and threw open the door to the safe, opening the chests left. It was piled high with Orlesian bills, and shrugging, the gang began to pile stacks into their pockets. The Iron Bull dropped a few stacks in Dorian’s hands. 

 

“Should we even bother covering our tracks?” Rocky asked. “It looks like those fucking demons already tore this place to shreds.”

 

Bull nodded. “Dorian’s gonna cover our prints -- I don’t give a shit if templars or chantry finds out about us, those demons aren’t getting any information about us.”

 

Recharging the spell, Dorian began burning away the evidence they were ever there, readying himself to fight the spirits now falling from the gash in the air. He nearly sprained his ankle stumbling when one struck him, but Bull cut through it, the tip of his blade nearly a millimeter from the mage’s skin. The Chargers returned to their bikes; at the speed they hurled down the road, Dorian was sure they could have broken the sound barrier, and they only slowed down when they began getting closer to the city.

 

Returning to the motel, they each began cleaning their weapons, panting heavily with the adrenaline crash.

 

“Dorian, are you _ sure  _ you want to stay here?” Bull asked, looking down at him. “I mean, we got paid pretty well from this, all things considering -- you could stay on with us or we can take you to a town with less demons --”

 

“I’ll be fine. That-- that probably was nothing. A ward gone wrong,” the mage said, shaking his head. “But you can take me somewhere.”

  
  


*** 

 

He had noticed the tattoo parlor when they first passed the diner on the way to the motel. It was adorned with a lot of classic Orlesian style artwork, but to his surprise he noticed a few Tevinter snakes and Fereldan dogs drawn in multiple styles. A heavily pierced girl with bronze skin and short green hair smiled at them from the counter.

 

“Welcome to Encre Emporium! How can I help you? Wait -- let me guess: septum ring.”

 

Dorian laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t suppose you accept walk-in tattoo requests?”

 

The girl nodded, typing on her laptop for a moment. “Typically no, but you can leave a request and a down payment and based on how complicated your request is, have something ready for an appointment in a few weeks.”

 

“That’s reasonable. I wanted to get a lotus flower, if that’s alright.”

 

“Oh, what?” the girl said with a smile. She stood, disappearing down a hallway and coming back with a human Dorian recognized.

 

Bull pointed and exclaimed, “Oh, hey! It’s that chick from the diner!”

 

“Yeah, I go by ‘Marie’ for short,” the girl said. Her black hair was cut to her shoulders, her bangs in a straight line above her pierced eyebrows. A black choker adorned her neck. She looked at Dorian. “So, Tasha said you wanted a lotus? I’ve been drawing a few that I really want to do on someone, do you want to take a look?”

 

She led him and Bull down to one of the back rooms, a large space equipped for tattooing multiple individuals at once. A boy with a freshly pierced labret was leaving as they entered, his piercer following behind him and reminding him of the aftercare process in slow Orlesian.

 

Dorian sat in the folded out chair, looking over Marie’s sketchbook. She had several that were very detailed and intricate, along with simple doodles and plain outlines. Most were black and white, but Dorian fell in love with one that had a green snake wrapped around the petals and asked where she thought it would look best. It took a few moments to sign all the paperwork, and Bull was chuckling the entire time. Dorian sighed with relief when his fake ID went unquestioned. 

 

The stencil was printed and laid on his shoulder, and after a few adjustments in the mirror, Marie began. The mage gritted his teeth. He had been pierced before, but had no tattoos as of yet; the sting was a little more than he’d expected, but also less dramatic than he expected. It cost nearly half of what he’d gotten out of the estate robbery, but after a few hours, Dorian’s arm held a snake holding together a lotus blossom.

 

She sprayed it and waited for the sticky residue to dry, giving him lotion and aftercare directions in a bag together. 

 

Hopping in the sidecar, Dorian kept his sleeves rolled up so as not to disturb the open colors while Bull drove them back to the motel. The Chargers adored the new artwork, asking about the pain and the sudden decision. The Iron Bull excused himself to the shower. The mage shrugged it of all suggestion the experience hurt more than it was worth, chatting with them and thinking, with a deep pang in his chest, about how they would all leave him the next day. 

 

Krem pushed the thought out of his mind by handing him a joint, and the room soon filled with smoke. Grim put on another movie, and Dorian recognized it as a film from his old Orlesian class, laughing and quoting in time with the characters.

 

It took effort to do so whenever the buzz hit him and it was his turn to hit again, though it was even harder when Bull came back from the shower to sit beside him, of all people, skin damp and fruity smelling, while someone announced they’d have to shotgun again. It only barely flickers across Dorian’s mind they must have some other way for him to join in, they probably don’t always blow it into his mouth for him, but he barely cares as he pulls himself to his knees and lays his hands across Bull’s shoulders, locking lips with the man and letting the smoke transfer.

 

Bull inhales him, not just the smoke, and runs a hand down his back, over his thigh. Dorian feels a tongue against his, and he shudders.

 

“CHIEF! MAKE OUT WITH ‘VINTS ANOTHER TIME!”

 

Bull breaks away howling with laughter as Dorian pulls away, looking at Krem with disgust and crossing his arms.

 

They all stay up later that night, and wake up mid-afternoon. Bull offers one last dinner together, but Dorian declines, asking them to take him to his new home. He doesn’t want to make the farewell harder than it has to be.

 

Up the hill, the Chargers leave Dorian in front of the diner, where he is led to the basement. It is a bit small, but there is a bathroom in the corner and a bed in the center of the room. The restaurant kitchen will have to suffice any cooking needs, but Mr. and Mrs. Moreau would be in the apartment above the restaurant should he need them. 

 

“You are welcome to join us for breakfast, Doris!” the old man said with a smile. 

 

Dorian stretches, alone in his new home after the Chargers leave. He can almost feel the revving of their bikes racing down the highway.

 

The empty room makes his heart race, and he struggles to not feel like the only person on earth. The floor is hardwood, and the futon bed has a heavy quilt tossed on it. An empty wardrobe on the opposite end has a fresh coat of yellow paint and a vase of sunflowers sitting in a pitcher of water. 

 

He steps to the bathroom, appreciating some of the toiletries on the shelf. It’s a tight space, with a narrow shower taking up most of the room. The oval mirror has a gold frame. Dorian looks at himself, and sighs, picking up a razor. 

 

It almost hurts physically to shave off his mustache, but he can’t risk being recognized. He makes a mental note to go out and buy more clothes after he finishes working that night. 

 

This is it, then.

  
This is his new life.


	10. worse things than dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian settles into life in Val Royeaux, enjoying his new life until the dream is torn in half by a hole in the sky.
> 
> Most of the dialogue is from the first meeting at Redcliffe Chantry -- took forever to find videos that used the dialogue I needed because I really have no desire to replay characters to the point of meeting Dorian again. Mild warning for potentially annoying gender comment by Felix regarding the nonbinary inquisitor (it is a brief pronoun confusion and is pushed aside afterward to continue talking)

Cross-legged on his bed, Dorian reached to the ceiling, letting his arms pop with the strain. Twisting, he let out a yawn, looking at the empty space beside him. The indentions in the sheets still held the shape of the curly-haired city elf he’d spent the night with. 

 

Smiling fondly, he stood up, taking a pair of briefs from the drawer and sliding them on. As per ritual, he began bending and stretching his body, readying himself for the day. It got his blood pumping, and the push-ups he managed allowed him to keep the muscles of his arms and chest tight and firm.

 

His shift didn’t begin until that afternoon, so he had plenty of time to go out for breakfast. Within a few months, Dorian had settled into Val Royeaux well enough. There had been a few alarming moments early on when Tevinter officials passed through the diner, but they didn’t stay long enough to get a good look at the bare-faced young man who took their order with a carefully practiced Orlesian accent.

 

With the news reporting his disappearance less and less, he slowly allowed his facial hair to grow back, cringing through the awkward stages before it was long enough to style again, and putting on a delighted show every time someone said he looked handsome -- a familiar type of handsome, one they couldn’t quite put their fingers on.

 

Still, he bought a full face mask when someone says his jawline looked familiar, taking it off only when he reached the bedrooms of men who message him on various dating apps, one set of abs to another. It was cheap and flimsy, but the paint job was decent enough, and it put him on top of Orlesian trends, bizarre as he finds them. 

 

That day, he decided to settle on a mask only covering his eyes, feathers sticking out of the sides of the dark blue fabric. His navy sweater and dark jeans added to the allure, in his opinion, and he laced the black boots he’d picked up from a secondhand shop.

 

Waving to the breakfast crew, he exited the diner and walked down the sidewalk into town. He passed by now-familiar stores, all beginning to open and bloom to life with window shoppers and masked youths. At the end of the road, his favorite coffee shop bursted with the strong aroma of cinnamon, covering almost the entire street corner. The bell above the door rang when he came in; he stepped behind a man paying for his bagel.

 

Ordering a vanilla latte and a fresh blueberry muffin, the mage stepped into the lounge area to relax, watching the ads roll by on the television above. It took a while to figure out which each ad was for, and Dorian liked to make a game of it, wondering exactly what the connection between horseback riding and dryer sheets was. Two blond elves stepped down and sat at one of the nearby tables, speaking softly together over tea. An older, masked man sat at his laptop across from them.

 

Dorian took a bite of his breakfast when the news came on. A Fereldan man sat at a desk, his arms crossed while a clip beside him showed a horrid green storm. Squinting, Dorian lifted a finger to raise the volume.

 

“Investigators have still found no one responsible for the death of Divine Justinia, though the list of suspects has only dwindled,” the bearded man intoned grimly. He straightened the papers on his desk for effect. “The prime suspect for her murder is someone many are saying is the only hope we have for clearing this storm, which some are claiming to be a hole in the sky.”

 

The clip cut over to a reporter standing with a man near the gates of Haven, a snow-covered town further south. “Herald of Andraste, they’re calling this-- this knife-ear!”

 

“So, this herald’s an elf?” the reporter stammered, holding out the microphone.

 

“It’s heresy, I tell you,” the old man continued in a mutter. “Those Templars were comin’ to set everything straight, and now everyone’s letting the mages burn down the countryside!”

 

The screen turned back to the man at the desk, who now sat with a bald elf who was apparently a PhD in Fade Sciences. 

 

“So, I have with me Dr. Solas, who has volunteered to explain some of just what is going on here,” the newscaster announced. He stuck his hand out. “It’s a pleasure to have you on, Dr. Solas.”

 

The elf stared at him, and did not shake his hand. “Yes, well. I want to clear up some misconceptions that have been going around these past few months since the unfortunate passing of your Divine Justinia.” He pauses, looking around as if unsure where to focus. His green sweater looks like he’d gotten it off someone else’s floor.

 

“So, you are telling us this hole in the sky -- it’s the Fade?”

 

“The Breach, as my colleagues have so eloquently decided to call it,” Solas begins, “is a tear in the Veil between our world and the Fade.”

 

The masked man sitting beside Dorian didn’t look up from his laptop, but scoffed “the  _ Fade _ ” under his breath and continued scrolling through whatever website he was on. Eyeing him for a moment, Dorian turned back to the screen.

“The danger of this, of course, this the demons coming out -- because this huge Breach has been made, small tears are opening up everywhere.”

 

“Mhm, yeah, and what do you have to say to people who are saying this is all something the mages did to get us to bow down to you guys?” The man clenched his jaw.

 

The doctor actually rolled his eyes, and Dorian had to snicker. “There has been some discussion of attempting to work with the rebel mages, actually, if the Templars decide not to help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

 

“The Inquisition?” the Fereldan asked, shuffling his papers again -- it was getting a little infuriating, honestly. 

 

The elf sighed, nodding. “I cannot say whether this child is the Herald of Andraste, but I do believe the Inquisition is, quite simply, the only hope for Thedas.”

 

Putting his coffee down, the masked Orlesian looked over at Dorian and remarked, “Bunch of religious kooks, those Fereldans, panicking over a little storm. Only demons there are those nasty little dogs of theirs.”

 

One of the elf girls looked over and added, “Did you hear they’re paradin’ around a little Dalish kid and saying Andraste sent them?”

 

“Oh, Maker, it’s a  _ Dalish _ ?” the other girl gasped. “They still make those?”

 

Dorian’s phone went off, and he pulled it out, wondering if Moreau needed him earlier than expected. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t realized the Southern Divine had died, but then again he had only really ever paid attention to the Black Divine thus far. The number across his screen wasn’t saved as a contact, but he recognized it with a lurch in his chest.

 

“Know you’re in Orlais. Father’s in Redcliffe. Need you.”

 

That number.

 

For all Felix knew, Dorian was dead and had been for months. He knew Dorian’s barely-a-secret, and he knew how Lord Pavus regarded his son for the shame. For all he knew, the report of a kidnapping was only there to throw off the scene of blood from his own bedroom floor. They had been best friends. So much blood. Felix could have seen. Couldn’t have imagined.

 

He tried to breathe. The way his therapist told him to. He was too staccato. Ribs clicking, locking, cramping his chest. Had to push. Had to breathe.

 

He gasped, inhaled deeply, and flung himself to his feet. He stood weakly, clinging to the chair and ignoring the concerned looks from other patrons. In a daze, he made his way to the door. Halfway down the road, he realized he had a new message.

 

“Go to the bus stop. Ticket in my name. Please.”

 

His chest tightened, and he wanted to sob, wanted to fall down in the street because he had abandoned the boy who was as close as he’d ever had to a brother, and apparently there was a great big hole in the sky; the words of the elf on the news reminded him of the demons he had fought with the Chargers when they had arrived in Val Royeaux, the Chargers who never contacted him again after riding away to Maker knows where. His life at this point was a cycle of him being abandoned and abandoning others, and he couldn’t figure out where he was.

 

“Please,” the text pleaded, and he read it in that child’s voice, and he read it in the voice he somehow knows Felix said it in the moment he saw the blood being cleaned from Dorian’s floor. So much blood. Too much of it not his. 

 

He found himself standing over his bed, shoving clothes into a bag before running up the stairs. The Moreaus shouted to him in Orlesian, but he did not reply, instead sprinting down the street and making his way to the bus station, dropping the name “Felix Alexius” and nearly choking on the sob of disbelief that rose in his throat when the one-way ticket to Redcliffe was printed out. A waiting area was pointed out to him. His phone buzzed over and over again with calls from the diner, and with a shout of rage he turns it off and threw it into a nearby trash can, burying his head in his arms while he waited for the departure. Too many eyes were staring at him after the outburst, taking ages to peel away and go back to their dull conversations.

 

From the time they finally pulled out of the station, it took over ten hours to get from Val Royeaux to the Fereldan city of Redcliffe. Minutes could have passed, for all Dorian knew. The bus stopped at the entrance, and Dorian grabbed his bags and stumbled up the street, full of regret over trashing his phone. 

 

Coming down the street towards him, though, was an young man with a clammy face and thin, short hair, looking at him with a quivering lip. “D-Dorian? Are you seriously--?”

 

The mage’s bags dropped to the pavement and he collided into the boy, finding him lighter than he had been the last time they’d been together. He lifted the Felix with ease, squeezing him tightly. The hug returned to him was weak, but Felix buried his head in Dorian’s shoulder with a soft cry.

 

All the outcast could manage was, “I’m sorry, Felix, I should have told you.”

 

“Forget that,” Felix said, dropping back to his feet with a sniffle. “We need you now. Dorian… he’s-- he’s joined up with the Venatori.” His voice dropped to a murmur, and he switched to speak Orlesian -- slightly less damning than Tevinter, at that moment. “The magic you two were working on, he used it here. He’s now been here ever since the sky tore, and their castle is under lockdown. Their governor’s left to get help, but Dorian--” Felix paused, inhaling noisily, gaze becoming distant. 

 

The mage gripped the boy’s shoulder, then picked his bags back up. “Show me.”

 

Walking along, Felix tried to fill Dorian in on -- well, everything. “Did you ever learn about the Inquisition back in school?”

 

“Probably?” Dorian shrugged. 

 

“Well, after the Southern Divine died, this little band decided to start that up again. They’re partial to mages, apparently, and I’ve gotten word they’re heading out here to speak with the rebel mages, but Father’s been talking about taking the poor fools into slavery.”

 

“Guess you can’t take the Tevinter out of the Magister…” the mage sighed. “This just doesn’t sound like him.”

 

Scoffing, the boy retorted, “You’re telling me.”

 

At the top of a hill across the small town, Felix led Dorian to a chantry that had a strange vibration coming from it. The hum was barely detectable, but it stung Dorian’s skin, a putrid stench like molded oranges coating the air that made him want to retch. 

 

“Have you got a staff?” Felix asked. The circles under his eyes made him seem a more grim.

Digging through his bag, Dorian pulled out a few pieces of wood held together with rubber band. Before he could twist them together, Felix took his hand. 

 

“I don’t think you should go in alone. The rift…”

 

“The what?”

 

“Dorian, I’m not a mage,” he said, almost mournfully. “But that’s what they’re calling these things -- rifts, little tears in the veil. Demons keep coming out.”

 

Blinking, the mage dropped his arm to his side, staring down at the doorknob. “Right. Don’t suppose you have any sewing needles?”

 

“I can do you one better,” he said. “This Dalish kid, the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste--”

 

“Next they’ll start calling me a warrior of the Qun.”

 

“Well, the kid’s here, and he’s-- she’s? Can’t really tell.” Shrugging it off, he continued, “They’re meeting with Father soon, and as far as I can tell, you don’t stand a change in there without them.”

 

Nodding, Dorian tucked his hands in his pockets, digging out a gas station receipt. Felix held out a ballpoint pen. Scribbling out a note, Dorian murmured, “Pass this along. Fake a faint or something -- you’re not going to actually faint, are you?”

 

Grumbling, the sickly Tevinter replied, “I’ll manage. Let me show you what you’re dealing with here, though.”

 

The foyer opened to several arches on each side, the hall ending with stained glass windows coloring the floor -- but the effect was dampened by the green slash cutting through the air. Every shape around it was twisted, as if a broken lens were hovering around it. The red carpet was torn in places, black spikes breaking through the fabric.

 

The gash contracted, and a figure was spit out; a ghostly creature whose body ended at the waist. It glared and shrieked, lifting a hand to hurl a charge of magic to the intruders.

 

On instinct, Dorian threw himself in front of Felix, sweeping a hand through the air to pull up a barrier. The fire died against it, but the mage scurried to piece his staff together, uncertain how long he could hold it up.

 

“Maker, what is this?” Dorian huffed, sending shards of ice through the wraith’s face. “Felix, get out!”

 

Nearly falling over himself, the boy spun to scramble back outside. “The herald is here, I’ll get them!” He slammed the door shut and leaving the mage to clench his teeth and fight back against the demon. It fell back quickly, only to be replaced by another pair that attacked from either side.

 

The mage began to charge a lightning spell -- with a yelp, he collapsed, black rocks tearing through the carpet as a skeletal monster tore through the earth. It gnashed its teeth, and he rolled backward, finding himself underneath the portal. Looking up, he saw the green fog he recognized from his own dreams, the unmistakable air of the Fade.

 

Jumping back to his feet, Dorian threw his staff up. The air dragged around him, holding his arms in place so they crept up slowly. His head felt sluggish, and despite his terror, his heartbeat slowed down while the beast charged at him with breakneck speed.

When its breath hit his face, an ice wall tore through the demon’s body. Grabbing the top, he launched himself over it, sending more through his feet as rushed back to the door. His peripheral turned greener, and he heard the cackling of demons enveloping him.

 

Two more of the beasts pushed in from either side, and with a quick spin he managed to beat them both back down in a single attack.

 

Sunlight poured in. A wide-eyed group piled in, swords unsheathed. Dorian’s stomach curdled, feeling the same green light coming from one of them.

 

“Oh, good! You’re finally here!” he panted. “Now help me close this, would you?”

 

Wasting no time, of them hurtled past him, bashing back one of the new demons. Fire came down to twist around his ice, and Dorian poured his attention back into the obnoxious wraiths that kept spinning about.

The gash shrank as each new beast fell. The heavy chains of gravity weakened too, slowing them down less. After a final burst of light, the tear snatched itself shut. An elf wheezed, palm outstretched with a rope of green pouring back into the skin. When the Fade remnants fell in shreds from the air, the elf’s hand fell back down to grab hold of the handle of their crutch. Their upper arms were snug within tight bands, and a column of runes ran up the sides of each cane. 

 

Looking to the scarred air, Dorian watched the distorted pieces of reality slowly begin to shift back to normal. 

 

“Fascinating…” he turned to the party, getting a good look at them for the first time. The elf was joined by two others, and a human woman stood behind them. “How does that work, exactly?”

 

The elf leaned forward on their crutches, blowing upward to push a strand of pitch black hair from their darker eyes. As if painted by the void, tree-like swirls seemed to sprout from the bridge of their nose to the center of their forehead.

 

With a chuckle, Dorian looked them up and down. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and  _ boom!  _ Rift closes.”

 

Squinting, a Fereldan drawl comes from the elf. “Who are you?”

 

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see!” the mage bows slightly, though no less grandly than he usually would. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” With a grin, he asks, “How do you do?”

 

“Another Tevinter,” the only other human in the room said with a scowl. “Be cautious of this 

one.”

The blonde elven girl beside the -- herald, Dorian guessed? -- rolled her eyes, and the mage cleared his throat.

 

“Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable -- as I’m sure you can imagine.” 

 

“Stop talking like you’re waiting for applause,” the elf groans. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

 

Feigning shock, Dorian gasped, “ _ What? _ There’s no applause? Fine.” Leaning back, he dropped most of the act of frivolity. “Look, you must know there’s danger, that should be obvious even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes?”

 

He looked them over, noticing at least two of them were mages -- a bald elven man leaning on a staff stood beside the herald, who had clipped their folded staff against their belt.

 

“Which is exactly right,” Dorian answered himself. “To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

 

The herald glared, reaching up to tap the tattooing just under their lip. “He arranged it so he could arrive here just after the Divine died?”

 

“You catch on quick,” the man nodded. 

 

The bald elf cut in, squinting, “That is fascinating, if true… and almost certainly dangerous.”

 

Dorian looked from the bald man to the younger elf in the center, who looked uncertain. “The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon, there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

 

Arching an eyebrow, the herald sighed. “I’d like more proof than ‘ _ Magical time control! Go with it! _ ’”

 

Swallowing, Dorian saw all the charts in his mind, heard the cacophony of a million voices blurring together in his mind. Alexius with midnight circles under his eyes, Dorian in a manic charge in front of white boards that simply had no more room for formulas, but they were just so damned close. “I know what I’m talking about,” he said firmly. “I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work.” 

 

Crossing his arms, he continued, “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?” He shook his head, waving a hand as if to push the ridiculous notion away.

 

Footsteps echoed through the hall, and everyone turned to look at the young man joining them. Felix looked more haggard somehow, though mostly annoyed. “He didn’t do it for them.”

 

“Took you long enough!” Dorian grinned at his companion. “Is he getting suspicious?”

 

Shaking his head, Felix answered, “No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.” Pushing his hands into the brown pockets of his dull orange hoodie, he looked at the herald, who turned towards him. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter Supremacists -- they call themselves Venatori. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

 

The herald put their hand against their chest, mouth open in a gracious expression. “All this, for me? And here I didn’t get Alexius anything.”

 

“Send him a fruit basket, everyone loves those,” Dorian quipped back. “You know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. I can’t stay in Redcliffe.” He glanced to Felix apologetically. “Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”

 

He started to leave, wondering if a back exit might be more discrete. “Oh, and Felix? Try not to get yourself killed.” He folded his hands together, turning to look at the boy.

 

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” Felix murmured to the mage’s back. 

 

Dorian thought about the stone floor of his bedroom and shuddered.

  
Too much blood.


	11. strength in numbers: candlelight and other blessings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven is packed with refugees, and Dorian sets out to -- hopefully -- help start closing this Breach so they can all get back to their normal lives. He ends up meeting some of the herald's crew, and they're not half as bad as they look (which is atrocious, compared to our dear scion of House Pavus).
> 
> Warnings for religious stuff and alcohol/marijuana in this chapter, along with a little PDA while said alcohol/marjuana are involved.

It didn’t take long for them to call him.

 

Haven was a frozen wasteland, with massive walls doing very little to keep out the cold. Dorian had stepped off the train earlier, pulling the coat Felix had given him tighter. Teeth chattering, he rushed into a small bar, his ear drums nearly popping from the shouting.

 

A worker led him to a vacant bedroom when he handed off the cash, though he only stayed to throw his bags onto the twin bed. Turning out, he locked the door, rushing back out into the cold. The meeting wasn’t until later that day, but he wanted to get acquainted with the town before bursting into the chantry he saw towering over most of the other buildings.

 

A fire pit sat between two large tents. The mage strode over, lighting it with his hands and crouching down beside it. It wasn’t much, but it helped to defrost him just a bit. He looked up when the tent began to unzip, wondering if the camper would mind his intrusion. Readying his explanation, the Tevinter stood, calling out, “Excuse me, there! Terribly sorry, would you mind--”

 

“Sparkler?”

 

His jaw could have plunged straight into the snow. “Varric?”

 

“Sparkler!” the dwarf reached back to his shoulder-length hair, pulling it back into his usual ponytail. Genuine excitement flooded his face, and arms outstretched, he stepped up to the mage, clapping both hands on the taller man’s forearms. “Long time, no see! How the hell are ya?”

 

“Freezing.”

 

“Ah, forget this mess,” Varric gestured to the fire. “Come in my tent, they’ve got it charged with some heating spell. It’ll burn your toes right off.”

 

The pair stepped back into the beige tent, and with a delighted noise, Dorian enjoyed what felt almost like a sauna. He pushed his coat down to the floor, sitting down on it as Varric opened a cooler to hand him a can of cheap beer. The brand was unfamiliar to him, and it had a vague outline of a dog on the side.

 

It tasted like that very dog had marked his territory in it.

 

“Cassandra told me they’d run into some prissy Tevinter mage back in Redcliffe last week, but I assumed it was someone else.”

 

“Who else is worth talking about?” Dorian took another sip, trying to adjust to the taste. “What are _you_ doing here?”

 

“Came for the conclave, stayed for the funeral,” the dwarf said with a shrug. He sat on his cot, pulling his crossbow onto his lap and wiping it down with a handkerchief. “I’ve been helping the Inquisition try to fix, you know,” he waved his hands around broadly, “whatever this is.”

 

Dorian watched the dwarf roll the sleeves of his flannel up. “Is Bull here?”

 

Frowning, Varric eyed the trigger mechanism of his weapon. “Sorry. Haven’t heard from him or the rest of them since I got here.”

 

He had expected that, but it made his stomach flip regardless. He poured some more of the Fereldan swill onto the nausea. “So, _Herald of Andraste_?”

“I swear, they write this shit for me,” the archer said with a shit-eating grin. “This little Elvhen spy wandered in to watch Justinia try to get the mages and templars to stop this slap-fight, then everything goes to shit and all the sudden you’ve got people accusing them of being either a murderer or a messenger of the Maker. It’s too good.”

 

“Which one do you think is true?”

 

The dwarf shrugs. “Isenam is short-tempered, but I’ve been around them for a while now. They didn’t kill the Divine.” With a shrug, he added, “If the kid was responsible in some way, it wasn’t on purpose.”

 

Considering the memory he had of the elf, Dorian couldn’t imagine them managing to overpower any of the guards that no doubt surrounded the Divine. Of course, whatever the reason for the crutches, the so-called herald _was_ a mage. The right type of magic wouldn’t require a song and dance number.

 

“What brings you here, anyway?” the dwarf asked, leaning forward. “Last I heard, you were in Orlais.”

 

The man shrugged, his sharp shoulders sticking up ridiculously high as his eyes shot wide open, hazel gaze unfocused. “Fuck. One of my old teachers joined a cult and he’s trying to take over the world,” he stammered. “Or, I mean, he’s helping this cult leader do that -- he’s in a cult now, by the way, they’re all the rage these days --  and it’s somehow going to magically keep his terminally ill son from dying. It’ll probably destroy the universe regardless, but who cares about all that, right?”

 

Dorian bows his head, realizing his volume had been escalating with every syllable; he felt like he was going to burst. After knocking the rest of the beer back down, he rubbed his eyes.

 

Silence. Then, “Well, shit.”

 

It sputtered out of him at first, then the guffawing made him double over. Dropping the can, the mage grabbed his stomach, eyes stinging with tears. “Fasta vass!” he yelped, unable to stop smiling. “I’m sorry, we haven’t even spoken in… in months, and I just-- how are you?”

 

Varric shook his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “You’re too good, Sparkler.” He reached over to clap a hand onto Dorian’s back. “It’ll be great having you around again.”

 

He grinned, cocking his head. “Of course it will. I’m a delight.”

 

His watch told him it would be a good idea to leave, especially after that outburst, and he bid adieu to the only person in Haven he wanted to be around at that moment -- but at the same time, he needed to get away. He stepped back onto the sidewalk, looking out to the small roads encircling the town. There were primarily pedestrians out and about, though here and there cars were parked. Tents made up most of the empty lots, with clustered families and gaunt, bent individuals with haggard eyes standing around them. Some held signs up, begging for money, explaining refugee status. They came from all over Fereldan, and none seemed prepared for the ice of Haven.

 

Dorian walked up a short hill, watching soldiers scurry about, some arguing. His eyes were fixed on the chantry at the center, its huge doors facing the open road. More tents were leaning against the sides, refugees huddled together beside bonfires. Since the city seemed to have no walk signals, he dashed across the street when traffic slowed down, waving his apologies to people who looked mostly apathetic.

 

The chantry doors opened to a building with ceilings that could have scraped against the heavens themselves. Despite the windows, millions of candles against the walls lit it the most, the tiny white dots of fire like scattered shards of the sun. The honey-gold light against his dark brown skin made Dorian look almost like a painting, and his heart pounded in the reverence -- created in the Maker’s image, so the Maker must be this beautiful as well, must be the very consciousness of beauty, of appreciation, of light.

 

“Hello, child,” greeted a tall woman, covered in the long white dress with its red accents that Dorian knew so well from the little chantry Mrs. Moreau had taken him to for dinners some weekends. Her face glowed from the middle of the hood she wore. Darker brown skin shone in the firelight, the light rippling over her cheekbones and casting shadows against her nose.

 

“Mother,” he guessed, with a soft bow. “I was told I could find the herald here.”

 

Her lips curl softly, and she lowers her head. “I’m afraid you’ve just missed them -- a soldier came in offering an alliance, they took off with a few other Inquisition members to investigate.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Anything you seek in the herald,” she said, almost gliding to him to rest a hand on his warm, “Can be found by opening your heart to Andraste herself. Let her guide you to the Maker.”

 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dorian glanced around. “I’m, uh, Tevinter? We don’t-- ah, I’d prefer to simply… pray to the Maker directly.” He winced, heart racing.

 

To his surprise, the woman simply took his hand, leading him to a corner with a single, unlit candle. “The Maker has brought so many to us. Dwarves here like to go to the basement and sit among the Stone. The herald brings in plants and meditates in the light, speaking to the Elvhen Creators. Andraste guides many others here.”

 

She took a long stick from a box, borrowing fire from a tall white candle at the edge of the packed table.

 

“No matter how many times we borrow fire from another candle to light another, the fire does not run out.” The way she said this made it see like a sermon she had given a thousand times, but there was no hint of recital in it. Each word seemed deliberate, as if chosen specifically for that moment. “To pray here, no matter what your take on this scripture is, means you are providing others the energy to pray as well. In times like this, I think we all need that.”

 

The stick was placed in his hand, and he resisted the urge to charge it with his own fire. Instead, he let the ancient Tevene pass his lips, the language only spoken in seminary halls, with its shaky structure and odd twists of phrase. Sometimes the modern tongue slipped in when, in between the memorized blessings, he shoved in personal pleading and praise and frustration, rocking forward and back, forward and back.

 

Maker guide him.

 

Maker guide him.

 

Let everyone be safe.

 

Maker guide him.

 

Let this be a dream.

 

Maker guide him.

 

So much blood.

 

Maker guide him.

 

“Maker, guide me,” he croaked, opening his eyes to see the stick turned black at its end, the candle burning gently below it. The sleeve of his jacket became damp when he touched it to his cheek. He jumped when a tender hand took hold on him again, but he looked into the dark brown eyes of the old Mother. “Thank you.”

 

“Thank the Maker, child.” She dipped her head to him, walking back down to the end of the hall. A door opened, and out stepped a young woman with a swirling blue dress that appeared woven from sapphires, the scarf around her neck woven from gold. In her arm was a tablet; the artificial light nearly flushed her out, but the fire from either side seemed to illuminate her from within.

 

“Mother Giselle,” the newcomer greeted with a nod as the woman waved her farewells. She then glanced to Dorian. “Hello! My name is Josephine, can I help you?”

 

With a sniffle, Dorian quickly composed himself. “I came to see the herald, but I’ve heard they’ve already left.”

 

“Ah, yes, our Lavellan has quite a bit of trouble sitting still.” The Nevarran accent looped around her every word, and she glanced down to her screen and checking off something. “I estimate they will return by this evening. Did you have any official business?”

 

“I don’t suppose you need an appointment to see a prophet? I mean, it would make sense, I had just hoped they would remember me.”

 

Josephine tucked a curl of black hair behind her ear. The rest was braided  above her shoulders.  “We have been meeting our fair share of Tevinter persons, though not many of the cooperative sort.”

 

“I’m here to help,” he assured her, holding his palms out to her. “Dorian Pavus, of Minrathous, expert at getting Tevinter cults off your back for the low, low cost of room and board.”

 

She nodded, not having looked up from her screen at all, still typing. With a bright grin, the woman finally made eye contact with him, folding her hands down and holding the tablet above her waist. “Lavellan and the rest of their advisors will need to approve first, of course. We should be able to meet tomorrow morning once they have returned with -- or I suppose, without -- our new potential allies.”

 

“Brilliant!”

 

“I’ll give you my contact,” Josephine said, stepping back into the room Dorian guessed to be an office. A few moments passed before she returned with a gold-trimmed white business card, her name and number printed carefully beneath a large optic-like symbol.

 

Exasperation flooded through Dorian in an instant. “I, uh, do not have a phone.” Arrow to the face. He desperately wished for some assassin to come out at that second.

 

“You’re probably staying at that little sports bar on third,” Josephine murmured, typing out the information. “Cheaper than the Day’s Inn, but still not many refugees staying there.”

 

“Marvelous deduction skills, Ms. Josephine.”

 

She laughs gently, eyes shining. “I am no spymaster, but I did major in International Relations -- so many psychology classes. Being an ambassador requires some finesse.”

 

His tailbone ached at the memory of hard wooden chairs from primary schooling, drowning in boredom while the nuances of manners and refinement were explained to equally bored noble children. He squeezed his eyes shut, a pained smile drawing out over his face, and he nodded.

 

“I will call the establishment when we have a time set for the meeting. Enjoy your stay in Haven, Mr. Pavus.”

 

***

 

On one hand, it tasted like he was drinking his own vomit after leaving it out in the sun for a few hours. On the other hand, after three shots, his taste buds had been completely obliterated, so really, what was another bottle of vomit lite?

 

Varric had his forehead stuck to the bar, his hand loosely wrapped around a scotch. The ice cubes were melting, and with a giggle, Dorian plucked the olive from his drink and plopped it into the drink.

 

It tumbled into Varric’s shirt when the dwarf missed his mouth drying to get in another sip, and the bearded man brooding in the corner finally broke a smile for the first time all evening.

 

To his immediate and obvious dismay, Varric had seen this. “Andraste’s sacred knickers, I can’t believe it! The brooding hero knows how to laugh.”

 

He grumbled, “Shut up, Tethras.”

 

The soldier was easily three-fourths beard, with a heavy brow over his glare. A simple bomber’s jacket was zipped over his chest, and while he looked short, he had a very stocky shape about him, with firm arms that looked as if he knew how to take someone down.

 

With Varric being so intoxicated, it would have hardly been a fair fight, and fortunately for the teasing dwarf, he seemed to value fairness. Dorian watched as the man came closer to order another drink.

 

“Blackwall,” Varric said with a grin, holding his chin up in his hands. “I’d like to introduce you to my pal, Dorian.”

 

The mage giggled, sipping his drink.

 

Blackwall acknowledged neither of them, leaving with his new beer.

 

“He’s not my type anyway,” the Tevinter said firmly, failing in his attempt to keep a straight face. Energy jerked through him, sending more chuckles from his throat.

 

Varric waved a hand and replied, “He’s not even his own type, Sparkler. In fact, I-- I--”

 

Loud shouting down the street suddenly amplified, drowning out the drunken stammering of Dorian’s companion. He briefly feared a fight had broken out, but it sounded more like one of the strange songs soldiers liked to sing in these parts, each with some individual war shout and rhymes for their regiments. It grated on the mage’s nerves, and the bartender grabbed a remote to turn up the stereo. Muted television sets above played something Dorian guessed was a Fereldan take on rugby, and all of the screens were black and white. The yodelling of Fereldan pop singers barely covered the disruption, and the door opened to a bustling crowd of chattering young people in black jackets. The last to enter had to duck his head under the doorway, tilting his head to allow for the massive horns sticking out from either side.

 

Dorian stood without even realizing, and clambered over in a drunken stumble, trying to clear his vision.

 

In the incandescent lighting of the bar, the leather jackets looked somehow older. An Elven girl with shoulder length black hair grabbed a dwarf who wore another jacket under his, the grey hood pulled over his head. When a blond man flapped his hands and swatted at her, another elf looked up from her phone in disbelief, and a dark-skinned human with even wider eyes motioned to the young ex-soldier talking with the Qunari man.

 

“Stitches, we can just sit anywhere, I told you,” Krem mumbled. “Chief, wha--”

 

“Actually, I think we’re gonna have to sit with this guy,” Bull very nearly cheered.

 

Dorian stepped into full view, not sure which of them to look at and deciding to fixate on the single eye gazing down at him as if he were an angel. A few more feet forward, and the Iron Bull closed the gap, pulling the mage against his chest and embracing him with a touch like a calloused cloud. The man was a furnace, and the immense heat made his vision shake more.

 

“Bull,” he whispered against the Qunari’s t-shirt, though the proximity muffled out the vowel. He pulled away, stumbling backward.

 

Stitches shook his head furiously. “This changes everything -- I vote we go back to the motel.

 

The Qunari started to answer, then shrieked with joy, waving to a dwarf ambling up to the group. “You’re here too!”

 

Varric grinned, teeth slightly stained from the alcohol, but all completely straight. His face was freshly shaven, but he still looked disheveled with his tiny red-brown ponytail falling out and the bottom half of his flannel all buttoned in the wrong holes while his chest hair heaved from the open top.

 

“Should have known you’d only be a… _stone’s throw away._ ”

 

“I, sir, am a good Andrastian boy,” the dwarf said with a wink.

 

Dorian groaned at the entire exchange, and Krem cut in, “Speaking of stones and getting stoned, I think this calls for tonight’s schedule to be a little accelerated. Dalish, it’s your turn to buy drinks.”

 

“Take me back to my tent,” Varric suggested. “I made a liquor run after Sparkler here drank my last beer.”

 

The conversations continued outside, and the Chargers eagerly strapped their helmets back on and mounted their bikes. Without being prompted, Dorian slid into the sidecar connected to the pink monstrosity claimed by the Iron Bull himself, letting the wind wash over his face as they sped back onto the street. The mage hardly remembered the stop at Varric’s tent; it seemed to take a nanosecond and then they were riding again. He blinked and opened his eyes to Krem hitting a button on the elevator, then blinked again to Varric pulling him by the arm while Rocky hit every button going down.

 

The room was large, with two beds and a cot on the floor, and a tiny couch underneath the for window. It was the perfect view to see the mountains across the frozen lake, with all the stars shimmering in the void above -- except for the massive green light that seemed to contain a furious storm.

 

Bull opened the window and then tugged the curtains shut.

 

The mage dropped to the couch, kicking his shoes off and crossing his legs beneath him. Krem was already yanking his binder off, revealing his very trim abdominal muscle. He flexed when he noticed Dorian’s gaze, puckering his lips, bobbing his eyebrows, and waving his arms until the man was giggling at the absurdity.

 

Grim was turning through the channels and looking to Rocky for approval. Stitches kept insisting on a movie that was on, but the blond man looked bored with the suggestion and stopped on a sci-fi show Dorian didn’t recognize. The captions were activated quickly.

 

Holding out his phone to Dorian, Grim showed the typed question, “Are you alright with this? It’s pretty bloody.”

 

A frantic hum stirred in the mage’s throat, and through his intoxicated fog, he murmured, “No blood, please.”

 

Another show was chosen, this one animated and full of pastels and animals the man could not quite identify -- Dalish seemed delighted, squealing when a pink halla danced across the screen. They settled on this, and Krem rolled a blunt while Stitches began mixing drinks for everyone.

Bull sat beside the mage, taking up most of the cushions.

 

“So, Orlais not your thing? I understand. You know they eat snails there?”

 

“I worked in a diner, trust me, I am very acquainted with their choice of sustenance,” Dorian said, taking the burning plant passed to him. He inhaled to his core, letting the light smoke drown his lungs and pull apart the tight knots of hyperactivity in his mind. Looking lazily up to Bull, he took another hit and offered his open lips.

 

The fluorescent light made the Qunari’s silver skin seem even more metallic, as if he were meant to be found between screws and panels, covered in wiring and tubing, the drum of his heartbeat against Dorian’s chest merely the thud of machinery. His skin was soft, arms bare with his jacket having been tossed on one of the beds, nearly as large as the comforter.

 

He breathed in the smoke, then breathed in the air from Dorian’s lungs, exhaling back what little was left, then inhaling it again. A thumb came up to the mage’s jaw, rubbing a few circles before pulling him away.

 

Dorian’s bright hazel eyes fluttered open. He hoped the burn in his cheeks would be seen as alcohol-related, but the spy towering over him had a smirk that told him it would never work. Coughing, he passed the blunt without looking, feeling someone take it and smoke without looking away from them.

 

Grim typed out comments that were voiced by his phone, and Rocky answered his questions about the show with a surprising amount of depth. Though the ex-soldier looked amused, Krem held his tongue while Dalish lay against him. Skinner poured a few more shots.

 

Bull held his hand out for Varric to hand him some subpar Fereldan craft beer. Dorian gulped, still uncertain about the entire thing, head swimming too much to think properly but just enough to let go of the tension clinging to him.

 

Through sips of his beer, the Qunari looked at him with half-lidded eyes, leaning to bump their shoulders together. Hesitating, the mage mirrored him.

 

“It’s good to see you again,” Dorian whispered.

 

“It’s good to see you too, Dorian.”

 

Maker guide him.

He swallowed, then fumbled with the weed when it was handed back to him. He needed a rush, but his mania was being dampened and fogged over. “You never… tried to contact me.”

 

“I figured the last thing you needed was anyone being able to trace you through me or my guys,” Bull said, watching Dorian smoke. “By the way, you were officially reported dead a few weeks ago. Well, not _officially_ , but they said your body’s been missing so long, everyone's just kinda… you know. Congratulations, buddy!”

 

Dorian snorted, pulling his legs out to sit on the arm of the couch. Though wobbly, he could see Bull’s face easier this way, and reached out to pull the man in.

 

The behemoth of a biker pressed their lips together; he breathed in the smoke for only a few moments, then Dorian felt heavy warmth slide against his tongue. Saliva was stirred about, and a wet noise smacked from between their open mouths.

 

Two balled-up socks slammed into the mage’s back, and a shouted, “Get a room!” made Dorian flinch and collapse forward. His hands flew out, the gold rings blurring through the air and clicking loudly against the massive horns he grabbed for balance.

 

That time, laughter broke out, and Dorian chuckled shyly as Bull took his hips, helping him back into a seated position. The mage let go of the man, folding his hands together.

 

“I must say, those are much... _smoother_ than I anticipated.”

 

“Wait’ll you see the rest of me!”

  
More socks hurtled towards the couch, thankfully not aimed at Dorian.


End file.
